


Mentor

by ivyelevast



Category: Merlin (TV), Sword in the Stone (1963)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gwen is a fangirl, Light crack, M/M, Morgana is channeling Magneto, Strong Language, Vague References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyelevast/pseuds/ivyelevast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur dreams of becoming a knight and Merlin blames everything on Destiny. (Loosely based on Disney’s 'The Sword in the Stone')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mentor

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially a fic that I’d posted on my LJ a couple of years ago, but I recently decided to edit it so that I could post a better version on AO3. What was supposed to be a quick check ended up being a laborious effort to reword practically every fucking sentence. To make matters even more confusing, this fic had originally been light-hearted, but after I decided to give Morgana’s character a little more dimension, it somehow managed to become not only more serious, but somewhat darker as well. I’ve tried to even it out so it doesn’t feel like the fic is split into two parts, but I don’t know if I managed it.  
> Also, I should probably apologize that Archimedes (the owl) doesn’t make an appearance, and I’m sorry to say that there aren’t any song and dances numbers either. I know―I would be heartbroken too.  
> Oh, and I don’t pretend to understand Latin. I just pulled words from the dictionary that seemed like they would fit with the spells. Just, uh, ignore the fact.  
> Lastly, I want to give a big thanks to my good friend, ccarlet, who did the editing for the original draft.

Merlin would not have said that it was a particularly unpleasant place—quite the contrary, the climate was perfect and the wolves usually stayed away—but he had no intention of making his stay permanent. In fact, if it had not been for demented Dragons lounging about in caves and blabbering about prophecies, he would not have been out here in the first place, attempting to survive in a run-down cottage in the middle of the forest. Granted, instead he would have been doing the same in a run-down cottage in the middle of a field, but at least he would have been surrounded by people and not birds that had made a target of his roof.

On the other hand, said people had not been all that supportive of his protests. His mother, upon hearing the “good news”, had kicked him out of the house with a kiss on his cheek and a satchel of food, blissfully ignoring the chances of him being eaten by wild animals or attacked by bandits. His best friend, Will, had saluted him and then promptly returned to his dinner. All in all, Merlin felt betrayed. Abandoned, Merlin could now only mutter under his breath about the unfairness of the world and continue to await his bloody Destiny.

According to the Great Dragon, he was to mentor the next king of Camelot, who would then bring peace to the land. There was some bit about uniting all the kingdoms, but Merlin had had difficulty paying careful attention—he was a little distracted by the fact that there was a _Dragon_ living near his village and that he had been growing up in danger of being eaten at any point of his miserable life. He was not certain if Dragons delighted in the taste of sorcerers, but he had purposely spent as little time with him as possible, not wanting to find out. Merlin had had his share of run-ins with his kind, evil and benign alike, but a Dragon was bordering on the extreme.

Upon hearing the news, Gaius—the village’s physician and Merlin’s pseudo-uncle—had gone on to give a lecture on the importance of Dragon prophecies and forced Merlin to follow the creature’s instructions, which is how he had ended up here. Naturally, the Dragon was only able to tell him _where_ he should wait, but had not known the precise date. After the _months_ he had been here, Merlin had already grown a complete vegetable garden and had memorized all of his spellbooks. This was no easy feat considering that they had all been shrunken into a small size and stuffed into his satchel. And to add to his list of complaints, Merlin was in terrible need of a proper haircut, and he did not trust his magic with that sort of thing. So it was understandable that Merlin was feeling a little ornery. Besides, there was also the matter of the prophecy itself. Legendary kings were all well and good, but, as far as the sorcerer was concerned, he had little in common with them.

“Arthur bloody Pendragon,” cursed Merlin while he uprooted a rather nasty weed. “Better be worth my time.”

~

Meanwhile, Arthur Pendragon, blissfully ignorant that he was being cursed elsewhere, meandered beside a scummy pond, avoiding having to deal with Kay’s—his foster brother’s—ridiculous demands. Arthur had already seen his eighteenth summer, and despite having a fairly strong build and brilliantly golden hair (he was secretly proud of the latter, but would never admit to it out loud), he had nothing going for him except his chances of becoming Kay’s squire. Granted, he was far older than typical squires, but Arthur had always wanted to be a knight. He trained whenever he could find the time, and he was not so terrible, considering, but he lacked the proper direction. Left little choice, he was willing to bear even Kay’s temper. Orphan that he was, Arthur was lucky that Sir Ector had paid for _any_ schooling. 

Nevertheless, that did not guarantee that Arthur was obediently willing to answer to Kay’s demands―although ignoring his calls would be pushing it. Grudgingly, Arthur turned away from the pond and jogged to where Kay stood with a crossbow propped against his shoulder. He was presumably hunting, although Arthur did not see any evidence of activity. “What is it?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral lest Kay hear the skepticism and turn back to see his expression.

“If you want to be my squire, you’ll have to pay attention and em—emul—copy what I do.” Arthur did not bother to comment. “Now stand there and watch a true master at work.” Kay’s expression of fanaticism was frightening at best, so Arthur turned his face upwards instead; he ended up craning his head to get a better look at a flock of ducks, but, naturally, even this could not occur without incident. The log on which the two had stood had been more unstable than it had appeared, so when Arthur moved, so did the log. The bolt from Kay’s crossbow, recently pointed upwards, flew off into the forest nearby.

“You fucking idiot! You made me miss!” yelled Kay, reaching out to punch Arthur. Fortunately, the blond was well-versed in the art of dodging. His only trouble was resisting the urge to fight back. Gritting his teeth, Arthur said, “It was an accident. There are plenty of bolts left over.”

Kay swiped again―missing―but took to chasing his foster-brother towards the forest instead, brandishing his crossbow threateningly. “You go and find it, you wart! And don’t come back without it, you hear me?”

Arthur darted into the trees, preferring them to the pathetic excuse for a knight behind him. He did not actually intend to find the bolt, but he would need to be gone a fair while if he wanted to convince Kay that the replacement he would present was actually the one shot off into the forest. On the bright side, it was not often that he got the afternoon off, so he intended to make the most of it.

~

Arthur was not sure what he had expected to find in an uninhabited forest, but it was certainly not a disgruntled boy about his age. Said boy—practically a man, really—was staring up at Kay’s bolt which had lodged, high up, in the exterior wall of an ugly-looking cottage (the bolt also being something that he had not expected to find). He was pale with black hair, lanky thin, had ears that stuck out more than what Arthur considered normal, and he was in terrible need of a proper haircut.

“Er,” offered Arthur, after which the man granted him with a long-suffering look, which was quite odd, because he had only met him a few seconds ago. He did not even know his name.

“That’s not your arrow, is it?” the man asked, pointing up.

Breaking out of his stupor, Arthur nodded, trying to keep himself in check. “Sort of, I was sent to retrieve it. I’m sorry it hit your house.” Arthur paused, glancing at the young oak beside the cottage and evaluating it for its potential footholds. “If you’d like, I can remove it for you. Do you have a ladder or something…?”

After a moment of blank staring, the man shook his head. Arthur chose to attribute his taciturn behavior to his apparent solitary lifestyle and started to climb the tree instead. To his annoyance, it was more difficult than it looked, and he on more than one occasion nearly slipped, swearing all the while. Moreover, it was increasingly awkward because the man below was adamant on following his every movement; Arthur supposed he could be socially deficient―if not mentally.

Finally, Arthur reached the bolt, pulling it out and then throwing it to the ground before easily jumping out of the tree.

“That was exciting,” he remarked for the sake of filling the void in conversation. He paused before continuing, raising an eyebrow and deciding that if he had gotten far enough to climb trees for strangers, then he might as well follow up with introductions. “I’m Arthur. Is there any particular reason why you’re living alone in a wolf-infested forest?”

Thankfully, Arthur’s outstretched hand seemed to trigger a social response in the man—he grabbed it and gave it one firm shake, surprising Arthur. The guy looked like he would break in half if Arthur so much as barked. “You don’t happen—what’s your family name?” asked the man, completely ignoring Arthur’s own question.

Cautiously, Arthur answered, “Pendragon. What about you?”

After a moment, the man let out a breath, “I’m Merlin. Merlin Emrys.”

Ultimately, Arthur could not help himself. “That’s kind of a stupid name, isn’t it?”

Much to his astonishment, Merlin only smiled strangely―as though the whole world burdened his shoulders. “Yeah, I can tell now that this is going to be just great.”

~

The man before him stirred his tea while glancing about the spotlessly clean house (Merlin had nothing better to do with his time than practice magic―much of which was eventually used for chores) while the sorcerer watched, not knowing whether to be ecstatic or despondent. On the one hand, he was finally free from his damned exile, while on the other hand, he had no idea how to progress from here. The problem with Destiny is that you still have to do something for it to occur―although it would have been far easier to follow a set of written guidelines. (Merlin really hated Dragons.)

Furthermore, Merlin had anticipated someone far younger; this Arthur did not seem like the sort to be easily taught. If he had had an empty slate to work with then Merlin might have figured out a way to go about it. This man, however, was old enough to have learned his lessons a few times over—it would prove a hassle to instill new knowledge in place of the old.

Still, there was a spark of excitement in the entire ordeal: Merlin would be able to use his magic for an actual _purpose_. It had been more than a decade since the time when magic was outlawed in the kingdom and sorcerers had been persecuted (personally, Merlin thought it was because the present Steward was just lazy, but that was probably treason on some level so he kept his mouth shut), but fear of magic still reigned. If he could convince Arthur to accept magic and see it as a tool rather than a weapon…it would already do a lot of good for the world. And it would not just benefit his fellow sorcerers—it would benefit everyone. Merlin did not know what else was expected of him, but that, he thought, he would strive to accomplish.

Besides, from what Merlin had seen—which, granted, was not much at all, but he was grasping at straws—Arthur _did_ look the part of a king, especially if he cleaned up a little. His hair was no doubt tousled from traveling through the forest, but it had that golden sheen that one could mistake for royalty. He had the build of a warrior too, which would, more likely than not, prove necessary. Henceforth, if the Dragon had not been mistaken in regards to his Destiny, all Merlin had to do was to bring out the king in him (which, granted, was easier said than done). Anyway, Merlin had the nagging feeling that Arthur was very familiar with the terms “swagger” and “smirk”—and “prat” was only a step away from “royal prat”.   

Speaking of which, Arthur was smirking at him right now. Lost in thought, it took Merlin a moment before he actually registered that Arthur had spoken. He had been so long without human contact that his mind was still muddled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked,” said Arthur, albeit overly slowly, “why you’re living out here.”

Merlin blinked. “Would you believe me if I said that I was forced to come here by a prophesizing Dragon that told me to wait for my Destiny?” Perhaps he should have been more subtle, but watching Arthur choke on the tea was worth it. Smiling, Merlin said, “I guess that’s a ‘no’.”  

The blond wiped his mouth on his sleeve, watching Merlin through narrowed eyes, “Perhaps. Tell me why you’re talking to Dragons and I might answer.”

Merlin blatantly eyed Arthur’s hand drifting to the dagger on his belt, sighing in exasperation. “You aren’t actually going to attack me in my own home are you?” Merlin asked, leaning on an elbow and playing with the sugar spoon. He did not dare to show it lest Arthur start to question him, but he could not help but feel disappointed. “If it helps, I wasn’t actually planning on blaming you for attacking my house with an _arrow_. I may _look_ it, but I’m not stupid.”

“I wasn’t intending to,” the blond replied weakly. Satisfied, Merlin levitated the sugar spoon from its pot, making it dance a little victory jig. The gesture had been born purely out of habit, and when he realized what he had done, Merlin froze, the spoon halting its dance. Swallowing, the sorcerer fixed his gaze on the utensil, wondering why his self-preservation hated him so much.

“Well,” commented Arthur dryly, “At least the Dragon makes sense now.” Merlin started―dropping the spoon with a clang―horrified that he would be forced to murder Arthur in self-defense, so that, ultimately, neither would reach his Destiny. If that were to come to pass, Merlin did not think he could convince the Dragon to refrain from eating him. Oh gods―

“Relax, Merlin.” During his inner ramblings Merlin had been erratically searching for an escape route (preferably the door, but he did not mind the window if it had come to that), but now he suspiciously turned his head back towards Arthur. “If making _sugar spoons_ fly is the extent of your _obviously_ malicious powers, I’m sure you’re either too harmless or too inadequate to be considered a threat.”

Merlin blinked slowly. He confessed that Arthur’s words were substantially insulting, but there was a glint in his eye that insinuated that he was more amused than wary. It was a start. Carefully, he settled back down, pushing the sugar pot away and smiling feebly.

“So, besides participating in vaguely illegal activity,” gestured Arthur to the sugar pot, “what else do you do around here? And what were you saying about destiny?”

“Destiny with a capital ‘D’.” Arthur only raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s not something I can prove—not like with my magic.” Merlin paused for a moment, terrified again. He still had a chance to take it all back―time could be frozen and Merlin could be gone by the instant Arthur woke. Equally, Merlin could send him on his way with his memories partially erased (though he did not think giving the possible future king brain damage would be very sporting). And yet, Merlin imagined going back to his village and having to admit that he had lost heart at the pivotal moment. It did not sit well with him.

“Try me,” Arthur prompted.

“According to the Dragon, I’m supposed to help you reach yours.” The sorcerer squinted, awaiting the scorn that would no doubt be thrown at him.  

Whether it was a good sign or not, Arthur just leaned back in his chair, his look of incredulousness dimming as he did so. “You’re kidding me.”

Merlin, already frustrated by months of waiting, pointed out, “No, you see, the Dragon even told me to come to this abandoned house and wait for ‘Arthur Pendragon’. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen many of those around.”

After a pregnant pause, the blond said, “Judging by your looks, I don’t think you’ve seen anyone recently.”

Struggling to keep the smile under control, Merlin narrowed his eyes at the table, “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur shrug carelessly. “So, let’s say that I’m your Destiny.” Merlin made a small sound of protest at the phrasing. “What would be your role in all this? Do you know?”

Merlin wiped a hand down his face—conversation taking its toll on him after so long a hiatus. Moreover, he did not know how much he could divulge to the man, future king or not. If he actually mentioned it now he would likely think Merlin mad―if he had not already thought so. “I’m supposed to mentor you, though I don’t know how. It must be something to do with magic, because I’m rubbish at everything else.” He thought he heard Arthur snort, but he was not sure.

When Merlin raised his head, Arthur looked strangely wistful. “Lessons are the last thing I need right now,” he muttered. “Still, I doubt Dragons give out prophesies to just about anyone. What sort of Destiny am I supposed to have?” Arthur was interested, Merlin could see it, or was at least curious enough to give Merlin a chance.

He hesitated, “I—I’m not completely certain. The Dragon stressed greatness and power, strength—oh, and wealth.” He threw in the last one as bait. Undoubtedly it would not stand to have an overly voracious king, but Merlin was desperate. Not only was he too proud to return empty-handed, but Gaius would simply send him back out again if he _were_ to.

“Hm,” murmured Arthur, stroking his chin in a way that the sorcerer suspected was intentionally mocking. “It does sound enticing…” Abruptly, his eyes narrowed and he glanced Merlin’s way, frowning, “So once you finish this ‘mentoring’, where do you come in?”

The black-haired man slowly shrugged, acknowledging that he had no idea whatsoever. If circumstances panned out in his favor, he would be across the globe, recuperating from the forthcoming trauma.

“Well, best if you come with me then. We’ve more to gain from giving it a chance. I assume you can pack by yourself?” Merlin was a little taken aback by the blatant refusal to help, but shrugged it off all the same. If he was to take offense at everything Arthur said or did, he might as well give up now.  

~

Arthur intentionally took certain steps through the undergrowth, occasionally glancing at Merlin from the corner of his eye to see if he was impressed. Each time he was driven to annoyance because the sorcerer was watching his feet (and having trouble staying upright) and not noticing how generally dignified Arthur already was and how he did not actually require mentoring of any kind. In truth, he had only agreed to it out of pure curiosity—it was not every day that you come looking for a crossbow bolt and bring back Merlin, of all people, instead.

Still, there was something endearing about the young man and he could not help but feel amused—that is, amused as a wolf might be at its pups that have not fully developed their instincts. Arthur thought it ironic, given who was to be doing the teaching.       

“We’re almost there,” said Arthur, pointing to the clearings in the trees where the plains were visible.

Merlin nodded, jogging up to match Arthur’s stride. “Sorry, but do you actually have room for me to sleep? Wherever you live? I really don’t have the means to get another place—”

“Of course,” scoffed Arthur. “Sir Ector managed to grab one of the useless castles left over from the Wars. Half of it is about to collapse, but if you don’t go near those areas I’m sure you’ll live.” On an impulse, he patted the top of Merlin’s head—too roughly, if going by the sorcerer’s reaction.

“Sir Ector?”

“My foster-father—he’s all right, I suppose.” Arthur took one more look at Merlin’s scrawny frame. “Though you may want to stay away from Kay. He might not be my real brother but he certainly punches like one.” It may have been his imagination, but the black-haired man paled.

Eventually, they reached the castle’s drawbridge (Arthur had not been kidding—the castle looked worse than Merlin’s cottage, and was probably far draftier). Arthur was about ready to start sneaking in when the sorcerer cleared his throat. “You know, I should probably talk to Sir Ector instead. If I don’t have sufficient time to teach you then we won’t get anywhere.” Arthur did not actually think he _needed_ to get anywhere, but willed his mouth shut for once. Instead he rolled his eyes and gestured for Merlin to follow, heading to the dinner hall.

It was worth it just for the sake of Kay’s face when he tossed him the retrieved bolt. It looked like he was having a spasm in all of the muscles around his mouth, as if deciding on what to say (or whom to punch). Ultimately, he threw the bolt away with distaste and returned to his plate of roasted chicken. Sir Ector, on the other hand, greeted Arthur, taking notice in the man lingering a step behind the blond. “So, Arthur, you’ve finally decided to show up? What’s all this then?” Presumably, “all this” referred to Merlin.

“Sir, this is—” began Arthur, only to be cut off rudely by Merlin shoving past him.

“Merlin Emrys, at your service, Sir. I can see that this’ll take negotiation, so I’ll just say it directly. I’d like to take up furthering the education of your ward.” Merlin smiled disarmingly, causing Sir Ector to blink in confusion.

Arthur was visibly impressed—he had expected meekness on the man’s part, but clearly Merlin was a better actor than he would have given him credit for. Sir Ector raised himself from his seat, his enlarged belly catching somewhat on the table’s edge. “Education? What sort of education? I’ve paid for his lessons as a child—I won’t be lured into wasting more money on him. Arthur, what scam have you got us into?”

“Oh, I don’t require pay,” Merlin said, waving his hand. Surreptitiously, Arthur cast a glance in his direction―privately amazed that the man would not exploit his circumstances. Ashamed, he wondered if he had made the presumption solely because Merlin was a sorcerer.

“Only food and lodging,” offered Arthur stoically, “The latter I’ll provide.”

Sir Ector shared a skeptical look with Kay (although the latter was more engrossed with his chicken to make any viable argument), then stared Merlin down. “And just what sort of ‘education’ is this? Arthur’s training to be Kay’s squire, you know, and—”

“He can have him,” interrupted Kay during a brief moment when he was not chewing, “The wart’s more nuisance than help.” Arthur gritted his teeth, flexing a fist behind his back. In that case, Kay could bloody well go and fuck himself.

“Spiritual education,” Merlin eventually answered, though Arthur thought that he lacked confidence in his answer. “Magic, balance of the world, that sort of thing.”

Both Sir Ector and Kay blinked before roaring into raucous laughter, pounding the table as though demanding more ale. Arthur faintly wondered if sugar spoons could be used as weapons in combat and whether they could inflict enough damage to have lasting effects. “And why the hell,” laughed Kay, “would the wart need _that_? He’s already enough of a pansy!” The blond bristled, stealthily scouring the table for the sharper utensils.

In his search for retaliation, he almost missed Merlin whispering native words under his breath. Steadily, an orb appeared in the palm of the sorcerer’s hand, light-blue sparks and ghostly shapes swirling within it. As soon as Merlin spoke up, Arthur literally felt the tension leave his body—only the barest minimum remained so that he would not fall over and make a fool of himself. The two at the table also noticeably calmed, sitting back in their chairs. Arthur closed his eyes halfway, faintly smiling in what was likely a very complacent expression.

“It is Arthur’s Destiny.” Merlin’s words had an echoing quality, as though a copy of his voice spoke simultaneously. “And I am to be his guide. None of you can or will prevent this. It is as it should be.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Sir Ector dreamily, “All’s well.”

Arthur blinked his eyes rapidly once he sensed the enchantment wear off, the solid line returning to his shoulders. By the look of things, he was the only one—besides Merlin—who was aware of the magic-induced manipulation. He could not help but feel guarded, although he did admit that he would have done the same in Merlin’s place (disregarding that he had already been planning to maim Kay, which was technically worse).

“Still,” began Sir Ector, sounding more like himself, “aren’t you a bit young to be mentoring Arthur?”

“Oh,” Merlin hesitated, “I’m _far_ older than I look. The, er, magic keeps me looking young. It’s both a bit of a blessing and a curse really. People underestimate me—because they assume I’m an idiot.” Arthur, still a step behind Merlin, smirked to himself. Sir Ector was already waving them both away however, having lost interest. Accordingly, Arthur led Merlin out of the hall, heading for his room (situated farther away from everyone but still in a non-hazardous spot).

Once they were out of earshot, Merlin smilingly remarked, “Well, that should ensure that we don’t have any undue distractions.”

Arthur smirked, tossing his head. “So, is that ‘eternal youth’ deal true?”

Merlin snorted. “Haha, no.”

~

Huffing out a quiet breath, Merlin pulled out the shrunken cot from out of his satchel, standing clear of it before calling it back to its normal size. Meanwhile, Arthur sat cross-legged on his bed, watching the process with obvious fascination. Anxious under the scrutiny, Merlin made sure to keep his eyes out of Arthur’s sight whenever he cast a spell, aware that his irises flashed golden-white whenever he did so. Though others had assured him that the sight was impressive, Merlin did not think Arthur would appreciate it―at least not yet. The man was already tense enough without that bonus scare. Other than that, however, Merlin felt fairly at ease. The room was not terribly large, but at least there was ample space for two people, and the hearth was an especially cheerful prospect. Arthur had hilariously jumped when Merlin had lit it with a quick incantation, startled, but his reaction had not been harsh enough to dampen the sorcerer’s spirits. He could not expect the man to immediately adapt to his constant usage of magic, so it was nothing to wallow over.

Currently, Arthur was calm, but he still watched him carefully, as though trying to imagine what to expect from the black-haired man. Merlin, still fully dressed excepting his boots, fell back on his cot, hitting his head on the pillow with an exhale. It was not _that_ late, but the various dealings of the day had left him tired. He had been so used to the quiet that he almost regretted leaving his little cottage. _Almost_. 

Abruptly, he opened his eyes, widening them in horror. “Oh gods, please tell me that you can read.” Merlin heard a scoff from the nearby bed; turning, he was not astonished to find Arthur smirking.

“You’re in luck, Emrys.” Arthur did not clarify, so Merlin assumed that it was a confirmation. He relaxed back against the bed, relieved beyond belief. Raising a listless hand, he pointed to his bag and whispered some nonsensical words. A few shrunken tomes crept out, growing to their natural sizes as they flew to land in Arthur’s lap.

“Great. You can start with those,” he said, yawning.

“What the hell, Merlin? What is this?” Arthur’s ire dimmed in comparison to Merlin’s exhaustion.

“Oh, philosophy, ethics, something along those lines…” he slurred before falling asleep, resting above the covers and still wearing his clothes.

~

Merlin understood that Arthur was not the considerate sort (he had not covered Merlin with a blanket that first night and Merlin had woken up shivering) but he supposed that, taken into account that Arthur had not yet pushed him off the ramparts in retaliation, Arthur was making a weak attempt at courtesy. It was either that or he was saving his anger for some ultimate prank that would undoubtedly leave Merlin crippled in some way. The thought was not a pleasant one, so Merlin tried to stay away from Arthur as often as he could. If Arthur needed to clear something up from the reading he could bloody well write out a note to ask Merlin later.

Of course, Merlin would never admit to anyone—or himself for that matter—that he was hiding, nor would he admit that it was because he was afraid. Instead, he calmly explained that he was simply letting Arthur concentrate on his studies. Unfortunately, he had overused this excuse on Gwen, and she only grew more skeptical each time he used it.

Gwen was one of the few castle’s maids that Merlin had met on one of his excursions. She had dark eyes and light brown skin, with hair of a darker brown that curled up in waves, and she had a certain love of yellow that he found oddly fascinating. Merlin had been relieved to find someone who was friendly and easy to talk to. He had already been worried that the months of solitude had done him ill, and, regrettably, talking to Arthur was not an option, seeing as he was to be avoided at all costs. He also found himself, for the first time, without that gnawing sense of homesickness, because Gwen―though he had not known her for long―was at least sympathetic to his woes. Nevertheless, he still had the nagging feeling that she was making fun of him for shirking Arthur.          

“And then each time I actually go in there,” he was saying to Gwen, “he stares at me as if he’s going to rip my head off!”

Gwen laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “I’m sure it’s not that bad, Merlin. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” The two of them sat on some stairs, trying to keep as much out of the way as possible. Mainly, Merlin did not want to meet Arthur, but he was not too keen on stumbling into Sir Ector either, or worse, Kay. Merlin knew that his magic could easily take care of either, but there was no point in tempting fate.

“I can’t be overreacting! The guy has a bloody knife at his disposal and thinks the worst I can do is throw sugar spoons at him!”

“Sugar spoons,” Gwen said, quirking her mouth.

Merlin waved his hand, frustrated. “It’s a long story. The point is, he can snap at any time. And I don’t want to be around when he does.”

The maid pushed back a strand of her hair that had come loose. Humoring Merlin, she said, “Well, he does spend hours reading those tomes. And each time I go in there to bring him his meals he _does_ look ready to murder something…” Merlin made a sound in his throat that could have been a plaintive wail. “But think about it, Merlin. Wouldn’t you get tired of sitting around reading?”

The sorcerer fixed her with a vacant look.

“Right, what am I saying?” Gwen tapped her cheek with her finger. “Let’s try this: Arthur has wanted to be a knight for years. He’s used to running around like crazy for no apparent reason, but he’s _not_ used to bottling up his energy. Now does it make sense?”

Merlin blinked. Yes, it made perfect sense. “Oh gods, he really is going to kill me! Once he stops reading he’ll murder me because of _bottled energy_.”

Gwen sighed. “Well, you’re still panicking, but it’s a start.” She lightly patted Merlin’s knee. “Can’t you think of a different way to teach him? Something more, I don’t know, interactive? Physical?”

Screwing up his face, Merlin said, “I don’t know. This isn’t really my area of expertise. I wouldn’t know how to combine anything like that.”

“Well, you should think about it. Anyway, if you fear for your life, you could always turn him into something harmless, like a bunny,” she joked, laughing and smoothing down her skirts.

“Huh,” offered Merlin, scratching his neck. “That isn’t a bad idea…”

Gwen abruptly stopped laughing, frowning. “Merlin, I wasn’t being serious.”

“Yes, I know.”

~

He was going to kill Merlin. There was only so much he would do for the sake of curiosity, and this was just pushing it. Arthur had already read more than he ever wanted to know about ethics and now, after having been engrossed in a chapter about peace negotiations, he was ready to break bones―preferably fragile, sorcerer bones.

Unfortunately, Merlin was nowhere to be found, and Arthur had checked every part of the castle, including the courtyard and stables. Of course, he had not gone through the places that were collapsible, but he did not think that Merlin was _that_ desperate (unless he had wandered in on accident).

The last option was that Merlin had gone outside of the castle, but to where Arthur had no idea, so he had returned to his room to wait. He had been lurking near the door for about a quarter of an hour before he caught the sound of hesitant steps. They in no way resembled Gwen’s sure-footed strides—so Arthur steeled himself and placed his hand on the doorknob. At the exact moment when the feet stopped before the door, Arthur wrenched the door open.

“Ohgodspleasedon’tkillme.”

On the other side stood Merlin, his hand still half-raised and his mouth gaping. His blue eyes were so wide and his skin so pale that Arthur immediately faltered and felt ashamed for wanting to beat him up. Admittedly, he would have only roughed him up a little, but even that did not seem like a good idea―nor was it particularly chivalrous. Sighing, he wiped a hand over his eyes and pressed the bridge of his nose.

“Fine, I won’t kill you—but I will if you tell me I have to read any more of this.” Merlin made a high-pitched noise, after which Arthur rolled his eyes and dragged him into the room by the shoulder.

Recovering, the sorcerer smiled uneasily, “Ah, yes well. As it so happens, I was just coming here to tell you that you can stop. So we can continue on to the next level.” Arthur raised his eyebrows, disbelieving that Merlin had planned this but willing to listen nevertheless. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s much more, um, exciting.”

“Really?” Arthur leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms, knowing full well that he looked intimidating. “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.” Arthur was not in the mood for surprises. “But it’s a bit late in the day to start. We’ll have to do it tomorrow.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a second, testing his patience. “And is there anything I should be doing between now and then, _Mer_ lin?”

“Well, you could do us both a favor and go and run into a few trees. It’ll do you good.”

The blond whipped his head around, amazed for a moment at Merlin’s grinning insolence. A second passed before he roared with laughter. Arthur was still chuckling when he shoved Merlin’s shoulder as he went out the door.

~

“So what am I supposed to be learning, anyway?” asked Arthur easily, glancing about at the market and watching people haggling for both useful and useless wares. Merlin stood beside him, fidgeting in an annoying manner.

“Well, in a nutshell, you’ll be seeing how it feels to be in another’s shoes. Call it a practice in empathy, if you will.”

Arthur turned to the black-haired man, unimpressed. “So, what, I’m going to need that for my Great Destiny or something?”

For a second he thought he saw Merlin grinding his teeth. “I certainly hope so.” Exasperated by the man’s reticence, Arthur chose to ignore the obscurity of the statement and made an impatient gesture. Merlin just smiled and shook his head. “Follow me.”

The sorcerer led them into an alleyway, swiveling his head side-to-side to make sure that there was no one there. The alarms in Arthur’s head went off quietly, but he put them aside, giving Merlin the benefit if the doubt. Momentarily, Merlin turned back towards him and said, “This might feel a little weird, but don’t panic.” After a pause, he added, “It’s easier if you close your eyes.” Arthur thought about mocking Merlin for his choice of words, but restrained himself and did as Merlin suggested.  

Some part of his mind registered a whispered spell and a flash of gold, but he was mostly diverted by the tugging sensation on his body. It was as though an invisible force had grabbed him and started molding him like clay. It did not hurt, per say, just felt unlike anything he had ever experienced—and made Arthur think that he was on the verge of losing his lunch for a second. Eventually, the feeling stopped and he opened his eyes, finding Merlin had grown into a giant and was looking down at him with a hesitant smile.

All at once, Arthur was barraged with empowered senses, his nose picking up smells he had not noticed before and hearing things—oh gods, why were his ears on _top_ of his head and not on the sides? Looking frantically down at himself, he came into the sight of two furry paws, each complete with a set of claws. Similarly, he looked back to see a twitching tail and furry flanks. Merlin’s magic had turned him into a golden-furred alley cat…that was bloody brilliant.

While he was admiring the color of his coat, Arthur once again heard the telltale signs of the magic. Turning back to Merlin, he almost laughed when he saw the slightly ill-looking black cat in his place. Seeing its—quite stunning—blue eyes, he exclaimed, “Tell me what color my eyes are!”

Confused, Merlin answered, “Er, blue? As usual?”

This time Arthur did laugh, but triumphantly. In comparison, Merlin was a lot smaller and drabber—a point at which Arthur inwardly gloated. “So, can anyone hear us talk? Or will they just be hearing meowing?”

Merlin shook his head, finally getting his bearings. “We can’t talk to anyone, but we’ll understand them.”

“This is great, Merlin, really,” Arthur said, quite honestly. He did not catch the black cat’s embarrassed expression (although how Merlin managed that in his current form is a wonder) and instead trotted off to the alley opening, tail held high and crooked. Arthur intended to make the most of this, lesson or not.

He headed towards a bench, jumping onto it, reveling in the power he felt in his hind legs. Faintly, he wondered how he managed to control his tail, but shrugged it off, unbothered by the extra appendage. Soon enough, Merlin joined him, mouth open and inhaling scents in that way felines have.

“One quick thing I should mention,” he said. “Remember that you aren’t just a human in a cat’s body—your instincts have also changed.” Pointedly, Merlin licked a paw and rubbed it behind his ear. “So, if you have a sudden urge to chase a mouse, it means you’re functioning properly.”

Arthur was just about to exclaim his disgust when he actually envisioned a mouse, plump and scurrying around. Immediately, he felt saliva collecting in his mouth—he growled, just to show that he could. “Damn, you’re right. A mouse sounds really good right now…”

Merlin made a disappointed sound, flicking a frustrated tail against Arthur’s flank. “Food’s all well and good, but I’d rather you focus on your lesson. Particularly on those children coming this way.”

The golden cat flicked his ears and turned his head. Merlin was right: a group of children—they might have been siblings, but Arthur had the sudden thought that all humans looked the same—was eagerly walking towards them. They stopped a short distance away, the tallest slowly extending a hand towards Arthur.

“Figures they’d go to you first,” muttered Merlin. Arthur ignored him and stretched out his neck to sniff at the offered hand. It smelled like human flesh, slightly sweaty, but otherwise it did not carry a threat. Risking it, the golden cat rubbed his cheek against it, making certain that his scent would block out the offensive human smell.

“There, much better,” said Arthur, “Now scratch me, slave.” The child must have had psychic powers because it went on to do just that, reaching behind his ears and getting at his cheeks and throat. He was in absolute ecstasy, purring to communicate his pleasure. Two more hands joined the effort—his tail went straight up when one scratched a spot on his lower back. After this, he honestly could not see why he should bother returning to being a human. There did not seem to be much point in it.

Eventually, he opened his eyes, only to see Merlin receiving a similar treatment. The third child—it was probably the smallest one, but Arthur was too far in bliss to observe properly—was crouching, its head at the same level as the bench. The black cat was rubbing his face against the child’s, being petted in reward.

“So what is this supposed to be teaching me? Some have it way better than I do?” Arthur managed to ask in a moment of clarity.

“Shut up for a second,” amiably replied Merlin.

The royal treatment unexpectedly stopped following a sharp reprimand from somewhere nearby. Arthur almost growled in irritation, just barely stopping himself. He did, however, catch the frustrated huff coming from Merlin’s direction. Looking up, he watched as a taller human marched towards them (it was probably the mother, thought Arthur, straining through the haze).

“Careful!” she said, grabbing the arms of the little humans. “You don’t know where they’ve been. They could be covered in fleas, or worse!”

Arthur puffed up slightly. “I am not!”

“Arthur,” Merlin muttered, hesitating, “We’d better go…”

“No way, I’m not leaving before she either apologizes or I get a good swipe at her—”

“Scat!” yelled the mother, kicking the bench as she did so. With a yowl, Arthur jumped off (he actually mostly fell off, but Merlin later did not tease him for it, seeing as he also fell) and ran, leaving the children to suffer their mother.

“What a foul woman!” cursed Arthur once they found a hiding spot under an empty stall. He turned to Merlin and scoffed at the ruffled fur on his forehead. Oddly enough, he had the impulse to lick it straight but refrained from doing so, figuring that his feline instincts were somewhat overriding his human judgment.  

The black cat closed his eyes and shook his head—worsening the state of his fur. “Why don’t we go and get some food instead?”

~

Desperate, Merlin was about ready to turn to a life of thieving. Apparently, a pair of watery blue eyes did not ensure a hearty lunch these days. All of the vendors they had attempted to seduce barely spared them a glance, shooing them away to make room for human customers. He swore that if another sent them away, he would not bother with ethics. Anyhow, he was a cat: he should not have cared about such subtleties. Arthur, on a similar note, looked like he wanted to claw someone’s eyes out (and Merlin was not his first choice as victim, for once).

“Let’s try that fish stall over there,” Merlin said, tossing his head to show the direction. Arthur did not answer, only stalked away pointedly, not bothering to see if Merlin would follow.

The two cats sat down side-by-side next to the stall, staring upwards at the man tending to the fish. After a moment Merlin could not help himself: he let out a mournful wail. Arthur would probably laugh at him for it later, but he could hardly care right now. The man immediately noticed, looking down at them. He slowly crouched, reaching out a hand—and Merlin immediately went to rub his cheek against it.

“Poor little guys,” muttered the fish vendor. “You’re especially scrawny, eh cat? You look half-starved.” He was referring to the black cat; Merlin could literally hear Arthur’s roaring laughter in his mind. He would never let him live _that_ down. Well, even if he did resent the comment, if it got them some fresh, overfed fish, who was he to complain?

~

The human part of Arthur’s mind was still astonished at how much he had enjoyed the tongue bath, but he could hardly concern himself with such details when he was dozing in a sun patch. Merlin was at his side, gently purring in contentment. All of that rubbish with finding food seemed to dim in comparison now that they were sated and relaxed.

“I still say,” languidly said Arthur, stretching out, “That cats have it far better.”

“Hmm.”

The boisterous and acute barking sent Arthur flying, scurrying to the highest level he could find to get away from the charging dog. Unfortunately, that happened to be a nearby barrel, which did not provide much height nor was very solid, seeing as it was empty. He was just about to tell Merlin that they needed to find a tree or a roof when he realized that the black cat had not climbed up with him.

Merlin, in fact, stood before the barrel, facing a very hesitant and confused hound. He had puffed up his fur and flattened his ears, looking demonic. He showed his left flank to the dog and stood on his tiptoes, attempting to make himself appear huge. The hound, which had been running crazily towards them, rocked from side to side, unsure of how to act.

Not wishing to interrupt what looked like a deranged dance, Arthur slowly hopped off the barrel, keeping a pace behind Merlin. He was honestly curious how long either of the two would hold out. Eventually, after what Arthur counted was fifteen seconds, the hound moved its head forward. Merlin, in a neat strike, clawed the enemy’s muzzle, leaving bloody, crimson lines. Arthur smirked (cats rarely smirk, but some do on occasion) at its cowardly yelp.

He would have congratulated Merlin on the victory had not the owner of the wounded assailant come running and screaming at them, throwing a muddy boot in their direction. Still pumped on adrenalin, Merlin dodged it, and it hit Arthur on his side instead. With a yowl he ran after the black cat, turning his head back and yelling, “Rein in your bitch next time!”

Merlin led them into an alleyway again, taking a moment to catch his breath. Unimpressed, he shook he head at his overly smug companion. “Really, Arthur…”

“What?” He licked his flank with distaste. That fucking boot would probably leave a bruise—now that he thought about it, eating all that raw fish would likely give him a stomach ache once he turned back into a human. “If you hadn’t been distracted, you would have noticed that the dog was, in fact, a bitch.”

Merlin only rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I was a bit busy saving our arses.” Before Arthur could protest and commend him for his bravery, the sorcerer continued. “I think that’s enough for today. Tomorrow is officially a holiday. After that, I expect you to do a little studying. We’ll save another one of these for a later time.” He flexed his right paw. “Okay, hold on a sec.”

The moment Arthur heard the foreign words, he closed his eyes. Again he felt that slightly sickening feeling, except this time the force was stretching him out, rapidly shaving him, and yanking off his tail (he was going to grieve its absence). The nausea barely affected him this time—he was always quick to adapt—and so he used the stolen moment to observe Merlin’s transformation. Watching it was decidedly more bizarre than experiencing it, and although it took no more than a couple of seconds, Arthur suspected that the perturbing sight would linger in his memory for far too long.

He was only retrieved from his uneasy fascination when Merlin took a misstep, looking a little green, and stumbled. Arthur caught him and quickly righted him. “You okay?”

Merlin cleared his head and smiled, “Yeah, thanks.”

The blond smirked (he had missed being able to do that properly). “Shall we?” He jokingly held out an arm, ready to aid the “swooning maiden”. Much to Arthur’s—unforeseen—disappointment, Merlin rolled his eyes and headed out of the alley unescorted.

“So,” Merlin began once Arthur joined him, “What did you learn from today’s lesson?” The blond clasped his hands behind his back and made a show of theorizing.

Ultimately, he said, “You can never know who’ll be a friend and who an enemy.”

“Not bad. Anything else?”

“Er, when you have little choice, you take help wherever you can find it.”

Grinning, Merlin cheekily pointed out, “Really? And all this time I thought it would be: ‘when faced with a beast, climb higher’.”

Arthur considered killing the man, but then remembered who had the blood on his claws, and so settled on teasing him for his quote unquote “scrawniness”.

~

“…then Arthur called it a ‘bitch’ and we ran away like our tails were on fire.”

Gwen did not bother hiding her mirth, laughing in what was probably a very unladylike manner. While she was on break, they were taking some time to catch up (mostly Merlin was looking for excuses to complain about Arthur―a concept which Gwen had no illusions about). Since stairs were their mutual favorite spot for such discussions, they sat on the ones before the front doors, off on the side. Surprisingly, the main courtyard was fairly empty—apparently everyone used different entrances because they thought the main one would have too much traffic. Merlin had a few things to say about the place’s security.

“Well,” said Gwen, once both of them had regained control of their laughter. “It sounds to me like you’re finally getting along with Arthur. That is, now that he isn’t trying to actively hunt you down.”

Merlin nodded, “You’re right. Last night we actually had dinner together without either of us wanting to kill each other. We even managed a decent conversation.” He did not mention the amount of times he had made Arthur laugh, aware that he was already talking too much about it.

“No small feat indeed,” Gwen muttered, but Merlin chose to override her remark in preservation of energy.

“Arthur really is better than the arrogant, knight-obsessed prat I thought he was at first,” Merlin confessed, expression thoughtful. “Did you know that when we first met he said my name was stupid?”

Gwen took on a highly diplomatic façade and folded her hands, “Well, Merlin, we are entitled to our opinions. Place yourself in his point of view and imagine how you would have reacted—or have you not learned anything from yesterday?”

“Haha, Gwen, very funny. At least my name has a flow to it. At least it isn’t something idiotic like―like Sir Lances-a-lot.” The maid only raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “He’s more, I don’t know, _human_ ,” Merlin attempted with a frustrated expression.

“Ah, Merlin, Merlin,” repeated Gwen, patting his shoulder. “All this talk of Arthur. Next thing you know, you’ll be going on about how handsome he is.”

“I…what?” If one looked closely enough, one might have noticed the slight pinkness to his cheeks. Though, if asked, Merlin would deny it forthwith.

“What, you don’t think Arthur’s handsome? Even with that arrogant smirk of his?” Gwen innocently elaborated, buffing her nails.

“Well, well sure, anyone would say that he is…”

“Ah!” exclaimed Gwen, dropping her cool pretense. “But you _admitted_ it!” She rapidly scooted in closer, leaning her head next to Merlin’s as though in confidence. “So tell me—I’ve been wondering forever now, and I can’t very well ask him myself. What does Arthur look like without his tunic on?” (In truth, Gwen had not been wondering about it much at all, but it seemed like the right thing to say, if only for Merlin’s sake.)

“Er.”

“You do share a room with him, Merlin. And you’re a guy, so you cannot give the excuse that you ‘politely turn away’ every time he’s changing, just because I won’t believe you,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Well, based on your opinion…?”

After a few tense moments, Merlin muttered, “Really, really fit.” Immediately Gwen giggled and Merlin shushed her. “Don’t you _dare_ mention it to him.”

“Oh no, cross my heart and hope to die.” Gwen grinned, looking like a bloody axe murderer.

“Gods, Gwen, you’re scaring me.”

~

Arthur, for once, was in a wonderful mood. He did not know whether it was the weather or if he had just gotten a good night’s sleep, but the fact remained. He had spent a few hours practicing swordplay and, though his muscles burned with a hard afternoon’s work, he felt like he could bring down a Dragon. (Of course, realistically, if faced with one, Arthur had no chances whatsoever slaying it, but since Arthur was practiced in denial, this was relatively easy to overlook.) It was  
in this mood that he searched for Merlin, finding that he was honestly missing his company, and not solely because he had become used to having someone around to constantly tease. Passing by the kitchens, Arthur learned that the black-haired man was last seen in the main courtyard, so he headed there first to check.

However, Arthur’s genuine smile—not a sight he often shared with others—faltered once he actually reached his destination. Merlin sat upon the stairs with Gwen, looking far too intimate and pink-faced as she leaned in, whispering words into his ear. Arthur’s mood immediately dropped several notches, leaving a taste of bitter wine on his tongue. To make things worse, the moment Merlin noticed and turned to look at him, the sorcerer appeared to be even more embarrassed. Evidently, Arthur had just dropped in on what must have been a very personal―and awkward―moment.

The last thing he wanted was to be the third wheel, but now that he had been seen, the man could not simply disappear without having to elaborate later. Normally Arthur would not have hesitated to do so, but this time he had no plausible explanation for the action. Remembering himself, Arthur fought down the bizarre change in his disposition, smirking at the young couple. At least he would have something to goad Merlin with.

~

“Well,” murmured Arthur smugly as he approached the two of them. Merlin inwardly cursed, promising to tell Gwen that she would be forever in his debt for humiliating him like this. “You two are looking comfortable.” Quite the opposite, Merlin knew he looked like he wanted to run off to the far corners of the earth and never return.

“Arthur,” exclaimed Gwen in a much too delighted manner, “Do you know, I rather understand you better now? I can see why you love to tease Merlin! He makes it so simple!” The sorcerer felt betrayed, and knew that it could only grow worse from here.

“Really?” replied Arthur, bringing down a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, _hard_. “That’s funny. Each time _I_ tease him, he retaliates. But I see that all he’s done here is turn into an unflattering color.” Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin saw Gwen’s smile twitch. “But anyway, please continue,” he said, taking away his hand, “I seem to have interrupted something I shouldn’t have.”

Merlin sputtered; technically, that was correct, but not in the way that Arthur had implied. Gwen managed to recover from her surprise much faster than Merlin—although she started laughing instead, which really did not help the situation any.

When he finally managed it, Merlin said, “Arthur, it’s not like that. Why would you…?” But the man was already leaving, waving a hand with his back fully turned towards them. Watching him, Merlin felt a keen pang of disappointment, both at himself for stuttering and at Arthur for not bothering to listen.

“Well,” eventually remarked Gwen, laughing, “You can’t blame the guy for being jealous, can you?”

The black-haired man whipped his head toward her, incredulous, and decided that Gwen—although she was friendly and had even cut his hair—was undeniably insane.  

~

Arthur concentrated on sharpening his blade even as he saw Gwen from the corner of his eye, approaching him from a distance. Normally he did not mind Gwen―indeed, they were good friends and he often went to her when he was either lonely or bored (more often the latter)—but the truth was that he was not keen on seeing anyone right now. Assuredly―or so he told himself―it had nothing to do with the fact that he was trying to distance himself away from Merlin now that the man obviously had other things to occupy his mind. He only just wanted to be alone so he could concentrate on studying fighting maneuvers without being distracted by certain idiotic, grinning faces. In fact, he was so focused on pretending to be preoccupied that he barely caught the moment when Gwen reached him. Arthur did not look up when she spoke, retaining his stoic and aloof façade.

“So, Arthur,” she said, sitting nearby in the dry grass, “Merlin tells me that you’ve been pestering him about—now how did he put it?—our ‘romantic and doomed love affair that Arthur’s managed to hallucinate as a result of getting hit in the head far too many times, although he could do with a few more punches for good measure if he doesn’t stop implying that I don’t know how to court properly’.”

The blond took a silent moment to make sure he had heard correctly. “You remembered all that?”

“Well,” shrugged Gwen, “He was so ardent at the time that I felt I wouldn’t have done him justice if I’d paraphrased.” The woman fixed Arthur with an unreadable expression. “…did you really call it ‘doomed’? Isn’t that a bit harsh, Arthur?” she added craftily.

Mirroring Gwen’s shrug and overlooking her question, he answered loftily, “Well, I always tease him. It’s like you said—he makes it easy. Besides, it’s so obvious.”

The maid shook her head in irritation. “I’m aware that you’ve never been terribly perceptive, Arthur,” she ignored the man’s annoyed protest, “but I can assure you that there is nothing going on between us.”

Arthur paused in his ministrations, raising a cruel eyebrow, “But you want there to be.” He did not bother phrasing it as a question.

Gwen snorted, leaning back on her arms. “I’m waiting for my knight in shining armor,” she said sarcastically, “Merlin doesn’t exactly fit the description.”

“Oh, yeah?” challenged Arthur, suddenly feeling like he should defend his, dare he call him, friend. “And what’s the matter with Merlin? Sure, he’s not your typical ‘knight in shining armor’, but he isn’t so bad once you get to know him.” Shaking his head, he continued, “And how do you know Merlin doesn’t like _you_?”

The maid sighed, idly tapping her fingers against her knee. “Arthur, you can be a bit daft, can’t you? No wonder Merlin gets so exasperated. Listen _closely_ : it’s not that Merlin doesn’t love me—it’s that he _can’t_ love me. Have you got it into that thick skull of yours yet?” 

It took a few moments but eventually the blond glanced up, narrowing his eyes. “You’re sure? He told you this himself?”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen waved a hand, “I can always tell when it comes to this sort of thing. Call it a gift!”

The man turned his head back to the sword―making a “huh” sound before continuing to work—and completely missed the discerning glint in Gwen’s eye and the fact that it was riveted on him.

~

Merlin struggled to catch up to Arthur’s sure gait, occasionally slowing down whereas the man kept moving forward at a steady pace. The blond was obnoxiously cheerful today―especially taken into account that yesterday he had seemed intent on ignoring him. The sorcerer honestly could not explain the mood swings, but took it in stride. Still, it was odd. Earlier that day, Arthur had burst into the room―practically catching Merlin topless as the man had been in the middle of changing―, proclaiming that they were going to the market for no reason but to exploit the fair weather.

They had travelled to the very center of the city, right up to where the castle of Camelot stood breathing heavily over them. Merlin had paused to stare up at it, completely failing to realize that Arthur had already ambled a far distance away. In the time that it took him to look back down, the blond had already returned in search of him.

“I’m not from around here,” he said, pointing at the battlements, “If that’s the main castle, what’s yours and why is it so close?”

Arthur smiled amusedly, probably laughing at his ignorance. Nonetheless, he answered, “If we had one, the king would be living here, but we have some Steward instead.” Merlin guessed that Arthur had probably forgotten the man’s name, just as he had. “There are four other castles besides this one: one to the north, another to the east—you get it. Each castle acts as a border marker and a patrol point. Sir Ector’s father―or was it his grandfather?―was stupid and claimed the dilapidated one to the east after the wars. From what I hear, the others are in good condition. Although,” Arthur lowered his voice in a mock-secretive gesture, “they say that their respective masters are beginning to get frustrated with the Steward’s idle rule. People say something’s big going to happen soon.”

Merlin swallowed the stone in his throat. “Oh—won’t that be nice?”

His part-time pupil only seemed more amused, unsuspecting. “Well, farm boy―where do you come from then?”

“Oh,” the sorcerer chirped, relieved at the subject change, “Ealdor. It’s just a little village beyond the forest where you found me.”

“Really. I’d like to know more about it.”

Merlin cautiously assented, stumbling as he began to describe it but steadily gaining speed. Eventually he was going on about his mother, Gaius, and Will, and even mentioned the Dragon that got him landed in those woods in the first place. He found himself telling Arthur about his simple life in Ealdor and realized that he was beginning to miss it again—but mostly the people in it, betrayers though they were. Immersed in nostalgia, he barely noticed when Arthur spoke up; he jolted once he registered the comment.

“Well, I’m glad your mother kicked you out—otherwise we wouldn’t have met and I wouldn’t have anyone to annoy. So I’m glad we did, prophecy or not.” Merlin had no answer but his own unforced grin, matching Arthur’s in an oddly comforting way.

They continued on their way, Arthur talking about his own roots as per Merlin’s request. There was mention, among other things, of his father dying when Arthur was still a child and of how he had been left to Sir Ector; other than that, however, Arthur did not seem to know much about who his father had been. Merlin listened intently, but he stopped in his tracks when his eye caught a bizarre spectacle: a group of men were lined up, all seemingly trying to pull a sword out of a stone, without success. For a moment, Merlin thought that his mind was failing him—but then he saw that Arthur, too, watched.

Merlin did not know much about swords but, based on what he had seen recently, it looked spectacular, as if just being in its vicinity would increase one’s courage (but not necessarily strength, so he figured he should not try to test it on any Dragons).

“Arthur, what’s that?”

“You really aren’t from around here. Have you ever heard of Excalibur?”

Merlin hesitated; the name did seem familiar, but not in a typical way. The sound of it reverberated in his mind, as if hinting at something. “I might have. What is it?”

Arthur waved at the men popping veins as they attempted to pull the sword out. “That’s the name of the sword. A prophecy states that he who pulls it out becomes the rightful king of Camelot, and that he will one day unify the surrounding lands under his banner.”

Listening to the words, Merlin felt the stone return to his throat. “And do you believe it? Do you think the prophecy has truth to it?”

Arthur’s hearty laughter jerked Merlin out of his discomfort—literally, because the sorcerer jumped. “Perhaps—perhaps not. All I know is that if brute strength is the deciding factor, then we’re done for.”

Merlin could not help but smile at that, glancing appraisingly as one of the contestants tripped upon nearing the monument. “Have you ever tried it?” 

“Me?” asked Arthur, all innocence. “No. I always figured it was more of a tourist attraction. Besides, look at all those angry faces. I’d rather laugh than be laughed at.” Unexpectedly, the words worked wonders to quell Merlin’s uneasiness in keeping Arthur in the dark in regards to his Destiny. Perhaps the Dragon had been mistaken after all and Merlin was not shaping a legendary king, but was merely spending time with his friend. Dragons rarely made mistakes, however, but he could allow himself one afternoon without Destiny breathing down the back of his neck. Calmed, Merlin spent the rest of his day content in Arthur’s company, despite the occasional taunt.

~

Arthur raced with his mouth open, taking in the scents of the forest surrounding him and feeling the wind ruffle through his fur. He only stopped when he reached an abrupt decline in the ground, staring down the hill at the expanse of trees below him. A moment later, his ear twitched towards the sound of a twig breaking, and he tensed—then immediately relaxed once he saw the panting fox that came jogging up to him.

“You shouldn’t run away like that,” chided Merlin, his blue eyes glinting with the exercise. His dusty red-orange coat contrasted with the more golden hue of Arthur's fur. “There are still predators that would attack us, including our ‘kin’. Trust me, you don’t want to come across a vixen and her litter.”

“Oh, Merlin, don’t worry so much,” Arthur drawled, expanding his mouth to simulate a smile. “Besides, you have a way bigger chance of getting into trouble, being such a scrawny klutz. Better _you_ keep pace with _me_.” Fox-Merlin only rolled his eyes, pushing off to run down the hill, getting a head start. Smelling the challenge, Arthur pounded after him, feeling the earth moving under his paws at each step.

It did not take long to gain on Merlin—even in fox-form Arthur had the better physique, which only increased his smugness. On an impulse, instead of simply moving to run alongside the transformed sorcerer, Arthur chose to spring onto Merlin, effectively tackling him (and almost launching them both into a thorn bush). He laughed as Merlin struggled, frustrated, beneath him.

“Now Merlin, did you honestly think you could outrun me?”

“Was worth a try,” came the muffled reply. Arthur put aside one front leg, letting Merlin turn over, but did not back off any further. He vaguely noticed that it would be increasingly awkward if they were to be in this position as humans, and so relished the moment when such social norms did not affect his animal instincts. Still, he found himself wondering if foxes also bared their bellies in submission, the same as wolves did.

“Well, you lost,” he pronounced sagely, nipping Merlin lightly on the ear before moving off of him. He was fairly certain that it was a trick of the light, but he thought, for a second, that Merlin looked disappointed (though he was not sure how a fox looks disappointed, so ultimately he only wasted time by staring into space while considering the notion).

Merlin chuckled to himself as he got up, stretching his back. “Shall we move on?”

“Sore loser,” Arthur drawled as he padded away. This round they set a steady pace so that they could recuperate; plus, Arthur was not too adamant on leaving Merlin behind, not when he agreed that there _were_ likely more dangers here than in the market. They did not have any specific destination, but Arthur enjoyed it nevertheless, although he really had no idea what he was learning anymore. A voice in his head was asking whether _Merlin_ knew. Arthur observed this line of thought and concluded that neither of them seemed to mind either way.

At any rate, there was something comforting about the thick undergrowth around them, as though it would shield them from any undue danger. He paused in his swagger—let it be known that Arthur had managed to perfect the fox-swagger—and took a look around at the partially lit clearing. The sun forced its way through the branches, creating spotlights that could turn anyone within their borders into targets, but overall it was an idealistic place. He ignored the instincts telling him to avoid open spaces and called out to his friend.

“Let’s pause here, Merlin.”

The aforementioned sorcerer stalked back from where he had walked ahead. “What? Tired already? I didn’t realize that you actually _require_ rest.”

“Don’t be silly, Merlin.” After that, Arthur shut his mouth, and just full-on stared at the fox for a moment. He looked nothing like Merlin except for his blue eyes (and maybe his ears, which were disproportionately large on his head) but if he squinted he could faintly see the grinning young man, akin to a phantom image. Arthur considered asking Merlin about his color-shifting irises, wondering if he knew that they flashed golden each time he cast a spell, but decided to let the subject lie for now. Eventually this staring contest would have grown awkward―but they were saved from this inevitability when an unorthodox stimulus snapped them out of it.

A lone arrow quite literally whipped past them, flying through the space between the two and shocking them out of their respective reveries. Quickly searching for the direction from which it had come, Arthur singled out a pair of men some distance away, bows in their hands—hunters. Arthur instantly felt murderous (he had not appreciated the interruption), forgetting momentarily that he did not have the option of fighting them off.

“Arthur, run!” He did not need to be told twice, and even though he regretted not being able to simply glare the intruders away, his instinct abruptly caught up with him and he shot off, keeping Merlin close.

They sprinted through the forest, the undergrowth that had previously seemed protective now proving to be a nuisance. The hunters, however, had longer legs and were managing to steadily catch up to them (Arthur did not see them but could surely hear them crashing about like idiots). They did not seem intent on letting them get away at any rate, given how far they continued to follow.

At his side, Merlin kept pace with him, but he was breathing heavily and Arthur knew that he would not last much longer if they did not stop to breathe. The currently diminished area in his brain that was the human-Arthur’s common sense was vaguely reminding him that he was _not_ actually a fox and that he should hurry up and fix that. On the other hand, Arthur did not know whether trying to assuage the hunters in human form would either increase or reduce his chances of being killed (he did not think his skin would make a nice pelt, but who knew what frustrated hunters got up to).

“Merlin!” he breathed out, already starting to tire. “Change…me back! _Now_.”  

“But,” the sorcerer protested, sounding a bit like an old man, “you…might be…sick, and they…aren’t far…behind…” If he continued, he would trip and get _both_ of them skinned and he really did not need to experience _that_ to be able to empathize with a fox.

“Just do it. I’ll…be fine. Got an idea.” Merlin took a peek behind them and then stared at Arthur for a second as they ran. His eyes flashed that curious color again as he lifted the enchantment, not even needing to say anything―the fear speaking for itself. Immediately Arthur felt himself pulled upwards like caramel, watching Merlin as he shrunk and moved farther away from him.

Ultimately, Arthur _was_ almost sick, but he managed to retain his breakfast and instead grabbed the nearest projectile he could find and threw it behind them (specifically, it was a chunk of a log―and was the temporary home of a colony of termites that had no explanation for why their world was abruptly spinning). Arthur angled it so that it did not fall into the direct path of the hunters, but just enough to the side so that they might be enticed to investigate.

Moving like a crazed puppet, the blond grabbed the blue-eyed fox in his arms and raced to hide under an overhang a little ways farther down a hill. It was not much, but if the hunters chose not to make the effort to clamber down, they would not notice the—what would look like—crazed hermit and his coveted pet fox. Keeping his arms clasped gently but firmly around Merlin (it would not do to squash and thus incite an instinctual growl), Arthur settled down to listen and sent up a prayer of thanks that the hunters had not had hounds with them.

A pair of footsteps scuffed against the leaves, making a ruckus before pausing. Then, a gruff voice yelled, “Come on! We’ll lose them if you go checking everything that you think is shiny.”

The second hunter sounded a little ways away, and so had likely gone to see what the noise had been. Arthur inwardly pumped a fist in celebration of short attention spans. “If you keep yelling, you’ll scare off everything else. Besides, I heard _something_ , and it was either the foxes or something bigger.”

“We can’t keep standing around here like two idiots.” _Arthur_ did not mind so much.

“Listen, maybe our wives could do with something better than fox pelts.” Reacting impulsively, Arthur absentmindedly petted the fox’s forehead, trying to keep the image of Merlin’s hide on a lady’s shoulders out of his mind. “Maybe if we bag something bigger, we could buy them jewelry or something.”

“That is a thought…” Arthur listened to the scuffling feet as they slowly moved away from their hiding place. Slowly, the voices faded away—not because they had grown silent, but because they had gone to frighten off other creatures elsewhere.

Arthur remained frozen for a while, still staring off behind them (although there was only a dirt wall there so he there was no _actual_ point to it, but it did look somewhat heroic), and concentrated on the warm, furry mass that he held, listening to its breathing. 

Eventually, Merlin ostensibly decided that he had enough of being a warm, furry mass, and began to growl. Arthur felt more than saw his arms moving outward so as to encompass Merlin’s shoulders. Once Merlin turned fully back, he found those blue eyes staring up at him from a human face instead of a fox’s. The blond would not admit it to anyone but himself, but he had missed seeing that wide-eyed expression.

Merlin clutched the cloth of Arthur’s tunic in a death grip—it was only when he observed this did Arthur realize that Merlin had been clawing at him anxiously. He should have been angry, but he found himself rather indifferent to it all. Besides, he was a little preoccupied with studying the distinct blue of the sorcerer’s irises, searching for that white-gold color that always appeared during spells.

Undoubtedly this made the sorcerer uncomfortable, because the next thing Merlin did was chuckle oddly and relax his hold on Arthur. “Uh, I think they’re gone…” Arthur knew perfectly well what Merlin was implying, but preferred to play dumb for the sake of curiosity (Arthur’s curiosity knew no bounds—it was how he managed to “hire” Merlin in the first place).

“Yes. Now, I will never again be able to go on a hunt without thinking of the lives that I’m going to destroy. Thanks, Merlin—I’ll likely starve if I’m ever lost in a forest.” Arthur almost smirked when he saw the light pink tint in the man’s cheekbones, but checked himself in case Merlin would push him away for it.

“I—it’s just so that you value life. You might need to remember that if you’re, if you’re in a battle or something of the sort.” Merlin’s words came haltingly, as though he had not thought through the purpose to the day’s transformation.

“Lesson learned,” honestly replied the blond, then immediately burst out laughing as he released Merlin, his amusement increasing when he saw the frustrated humiliation on his features. “Gods, you should’ve seen your face!” he exclaimed, leaning back on the earth.

“You, you fucking prick!” Merlin exploded. “I thought you were going to, to murder me or something! Like you finally decided magic had been illegal for a _reason_!” Arthur inwardly twitched as he perceived the honest fear, unjustly feeling betrayed for the lack of trust.

“Don’t scare me like that again!” Merlin huffed.

“Sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that,” Arthur said soothingly, sitting up and drawing away his superior façade. “Come on, let’s get back and force Gwen to steal us some pastries.” Arthur might not have been the most perceptive individual (or so others claimed), but if he wanted to cheer someone up, he could usually figure out a way. Considering how the black-haired man’s countenance lightened, he concluded that Merlin could be pacified with food. Arthur made a mental note.

~

Destiny, Merlin realized, had a sick sense of humor. And Dragons, its messengers, undoubtedly shared it. When the Great Dragon (or so he had called himself―to which Merlin had a few choice adjectives he wanted to add) had said that his and Arthur’s “paths will be entwined into one Destiny”, he had not expected something like this.

Merlin was finally convinced that he must have been mad, because there was no other way to rationalize why he was finding himself enamored with his personal purveyor of threats and mockeries. Some part of Merlin registered that if he took any more of this abuse—despite its playfulness—he would soon become a masochist (and that really was not something that he wanted to bear in mind at the moment).

On the other hand, he could not be blamed for it: Arthur was far too attractive for his own good (and he knew it, that bastard) and was actually quite kind to Merlin when he was not teasing him. The blond had even let up on some of the insults, though Merlin suspected it was because he was no longer shut in with those tomes he had thrown at Arthur the first night. 

Once he stopped panicking and actually considered it, the image of Arthur as his _Destiny_ was far more appealing than anything he had going for him (that is, besides the magic—that had priority). Merlin found that he did not mind the fantasy, even if Arthur _would_ one day be king (another issue he needed to deal with eventually, but something that he had decided to take for granted).

Merlin leaned against a rampart of the castle, holding up his heavy head in his palm, and mused. He watched the blond figure below practicing swordsmanship on a dummy; now and then, Merlin glanced in the direction of Kay’s training and compared the two. Arthur was the obvious superior despite the age difference (Kay moved like he was being attacked by mutant wasps—or perhaps he was performing an awkward interpretive dance) and Merlin found himself honestly regretting that Arthur did not have the chance to become the knight he wanted to be. Even he could see that Arthur was, in all meanings of the term, a natural.

Still, the sorcerer did not usually attempt to understand these things, but he swore that he heard somewhere that one had to be of noble blood to become a knight. In passing, Arthur had mentioned that he himself did not have the documents to prove it (nor was he certain about it), which again brought on the question of how the hell the Dragon expected Arthur to become king. Indeed, the Dragon had probably spent so much time in that cave of his that he had misplaced his sanity somewhere in its depths. For all Merlin knew, Gaius could have already begun to go round the bend as well and, being the naïve idiot that he was, Merlin had taken his advice.

Pained with the muddle of confusion in his head (he blamed Destiny―as always), Merlin sighed and wandered back to watching Arthur, hoping that the man would not have the sudden inspiration to glance up. Yet, considering Arthur’s concentration, he did not think that the fighter would bother to look even if Merlin suddenly testified to the cruelty of the world and threw himself off the roof.

It was not the worst idea, taking into account that, every time Merlin stole a glimpse of him, Arthur seemed to grow even more heterosexual. He had never thought it possible but, well, there it was. Arthur was probably the type of guy that, when approached with an offer to go pick flowers, would kick you in the bollocks and then loot you for good measure (not saying that Merlin had an urge to go pick flowers, but still).

Besides, he had often overheard some of the other maids talking about Arthur (Merlin certainly had not stopped to secretly listen); according to the amount of times they were close to swooning, the blond had his pick of the litter. He had even seen Arthur looking curiously at _Gwen_ , and he had assumed that the two were more like siblings than anything. Then again, Arthur never brought any girls into their room; but Merlin had not been here that long, and there were plenty of times in the day when he had no clue where Arthur was. Arthur could have been in an alley somewhere with his hand up a whore’s skirt, for all he cared. (Merlin was a bad liar.)

In the end, the Arthur in his daydreams could not possibly be the Arthur of their Destiny for a ridiculous amount of factors. In short, Merlin had been stupid again and managed to fall for someone who was extremely inconvenient. Anyway, the issue that he had with his reverie was not so much that they were both men (though undeniably true), but that the situation raised ominous consequences if it were to manifest. Merlin did not envision that the kingdom would take kindly to him for being the sole reason why it had no heir (which provoked him to imagine what his and Arthur’s children would look like if, oh gods why the fuck was he even thinking about it?!).

Thankfully he was saved when Gwen joined him at the rampart, smiling. “It took me a while to find you, Merlin. But I guess it’s my own fault for not realizing sooner that you’d be around—” Here she pointed downwards, towards the oblivious Arthur.

Oh, great, so much for salvation. Merlin sighed in resignation, briefly considering whether asking Gwen if Arthur would make a better father or mother would underpin her opinion of him, but he ultimately decided he was not ready for that sort of commitment anyway. “I don’t _stalk_ him, Gwen. I was just wondering what the big deal was about hitting each other with metal sticks.”

“Right, you don’t stalk him. And you don’t sneak peeks when he’s changing, and you don’t watch him sleep—”

“ _I most_ _certainly_ _do not watch him sleep_!” squawked Merlin, wondering as an afterthought how well sound projected from where they stood.

“—and I’m the Queen of the Fairies,” finished Gwen complacently.

The sorcerer gawked at her for a moment, only now realizing how scary girls are and how happy he was that he did not fancy them much. Sputtering, he asked, “Why do you have this peculiar fascination with convincing me that I’m obsessed with Arthur?”

“Ah, Merlin, Merlin,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “Even if I were to explain it to you, I don’t think you’d understand the rush one gets at seeing two adorably handsome men embracing each other.”

“…what?”

~

Arthur would be lying if he said that he had never imagined what flight would feel like, but he had never actually believed he would get the chance—well, if it could be called that. Apparently, Merlin’s idea of a flying lesson was to push him out of a tower window and see how well he would fare. Granted, by this point Arthur had already been transformed into a raven, but he had not expected his instincts to trigger quickly enough right after being changed, and so he had resigned himself to death.

To Arthur’s obvious shock, however, Merlin had actually known what he was doing (or had pretended to) because something instantly clicked in Arthur’s mind and he extended his wings to catch the updraft. Of course, that did not guarantee that Arthur did not immediately begin plotting Merlin’s “accidental” demise.

“See, it’s not too bad, is it?” remarked Merlin, suddenly appearing next to Arthur, flapping his wings easily. The bigger of the two ravens just glared, wondering if it was worth pecking the sorcerer to death. “And you wanted to practice flying from _bed to bed_.”

“Merlin, one more word out of your damned mouth—beak—and I’ll _claw_ you.”

In response, Merlin just grinned—Arthur could tell—and flew a circle around him. “So, where would you like to go?”

Arthur began to mimic the blue-eyed raven, moving in a circular dance pattern until it looked like both were chasing the other. Honestly, Arthur did not really want to go anywhere, but he figured since it was still technically a lesson then he had to make more of an effort. “I don’t care. Just as long as it isn’t town. I don’t want people to think we’re an omen of death and try to stone us.” After their run-in with the hunters, Arthur wanted to stay as far away from those filthy humans as possible. “Let’s fly over the forest instead. I want to see what it looks like from up here. I doubt anyone would try to shoot at us there.”

“Sure, as you like.” Arthur wondered if he could pinpoint the moment when these lessons had turned into outings, but found that he could not. Rather, he questioned if they ever _were_ lessons—and whether Merlin thought so too.

Merlin guided Arthur as they flew, giving him pointers when instinct fell short, and occasionally laughed when he complained about insects hitting him in the face. Arthur, though he mainly concentrated on keeping his feathers in the proper positions (it would not do to crash-land, especially since they were passing an area infamous for rose bushes), occasionally stole glimpses of Merlin. He discovered that if he looked at him for an extended period, then the feathers on the back of Merlin’s neck would puff upwards (and Arthur could tell that it had nothing to do with wind currents).

The rest of the time Arthur spent cataloguing the scenery, which Merlin had not lied about. It _was_ a lovely view and was well worth Merlin’s earlier indiscretion―something for which Arthur found he no longer cared to rebuke the sorcerer. Although, truly, Arthur was lately having a difficult time putting any true weight to his threats; he was not certain whether it was him who was lagging or if Merlin had just become immunized from overexposure. Either way, Arthur found it perturbing how often he thought about all things concerning Merlin, and though a part of him understood why, he had yet to reach the point where he wanted to admit any of it out loud―particularly to said sorcerer.  

Shaking his head to clear it of his predicament until a later time, Arthur refocused his attention on the view below, glancing to the side when he noticed a flash in his peripherals. There was something bizarre about a section of trees—if he concentrated carefully, he could see the air shimmer, akin to how a lake’s surface reflects the sun.

“What’s that?” he asked Merlin, staring at the area. “That shiny spot.” He glided towards it, expecting his fellow raven to follow him. As he neared the tops of the trees, Arthur thought that he could see something below them, down on the ground, but he could not make it out in the gloom. In his attempts to distinguish it, Arthur strayed too close to the shimmering barrier, clipping the surface with a single wing beat.

“Arthur, stop!” Arthur belatedly realized his mistake the second he reverted back to his human form. He dropped like a rock, narrowly missing branches that would have stopped his fall. Watching the ground rushing up towards him, Arthur wished that he could have seen his life flashing before his eyes instead, because then he would have at least been distracted from the knowledge that he would die in a couple of seconds. Deliriously, Arthur acknowledged that at least Merlin could finally tell off that Dragon of his for setting him up with the wrong Destiny.  

It took Arthur a moment to observe that the ground had actually stopped moving closer―and that it was not because he had crashed into it. Assuming that it was Merlin that had frozen him in air before he landed, Arthur lifted his head and was astonished to see a woman holding up a hand towards him.

“I _thought_ I had felt someone,” she said with an arrogant tilt to her chin. The woman herself had black hair that fell down her back neatly in waves, and her paleness rivaled that of Merlin’s (no small feat in this cold weather). She might have been around his age—perhaps older—and, oddly enough, was wearing a dress one would usually only see in court, though it was worse for wear. A short distance behind her stood a cottage (and though it did not look welcoming, it looked _far_ more habitable than Merlin’s old one).

Arthur supposed that he should have been grateful to her for saving his life, but her expression ruffled his―former―feathers the wrong way. In retrospect, Arthur realized that it was because, based on a first impression, it had been like encountering a female version of himself (after which Arthur immediately blocked out a memory of that time when Gwen and he had played dress-up).  

She called off the spell and Arthur scrambled up quickly after hitting the ground (none-too-lightly), staring up at the forest’s canopy. “What the hell was that?”

The woman looked unimpressed, but answered nonetheless. “You fell through my barrier. It prevents anyone, besides me, from casting magic inside this dome. I assume you were that raven, weren’t you?” She twitched a condescending eyebrow, her lip curling, not unkindly. “Most sorcerers would have the common sense to stay away from unfamiliar spells.”

Arthur twitched visibly; if that were true, and if Merlin had followed him in, then the same must have happened to him… “Merlin?!” he called upwards, praying that he would not have to check the forest floor.

Distracted, he barely noticed when the woman exclaimed, “ _Merlin_?” Instead, his attention snapped to the figure that hung onto the branches, struggling (and failing) to lift its legs to wrap around the tree bough. The blond was about to call out to him that the woman could help, only to find that he could no longer move his mouth—or the rest of him for that matter (save for his eyes, but even then he could barely blink).

“Now, now, any friend of Merlin’s is an enemy of mine,” muttered the sorceress. He desperately tried warning Merlin, but it was a useless attempt (and the situation only worsened because his side was starting to badly itch). As he watched, the woman stepped forward, taking aiming before muttering words that sounded strange to Arthur’s ears.

A loud crack echoed in the glade as the branch onto which Merlin held broke off, followed by a constant stream of curses as the remaining trees did their utmost to batter the man falling through them. Much to Arthur’s silent relief, however, the sorceress froze Merlin just as she had done with Arthur, setting him to stand upright. Though thankful, Arthur immediately grew suspicious, attempting to deduce her ulterior motives for keeping Merlin alive.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Morgana?” Unable to move, Arthur resigned himself to see how this panned out. From what he had seen, Merlin truly was powerless, but at least he was able to move his head―not that Arthur could imagine how they could count that as an advantage.

“I might ask you the same question,” Morgana replied, scowling. “As it so happens, I live here. And you’re trespassing—do you know what I do with trespassers?”

Merlin grinned in that way he had when he wanted to give others the disarming impression that he was a complete idiot. Arthur had seen Merlin practice it on Sir Ector, and though it worked on the latter, it only convinced Arthur that not only was Merlin an idiot, but he was a manipulative one as well. “Give them a slap on the wrist and send them on their way?”

Morgana, unmoved, chose to ignore Merlin, and instead turned to face the frozen blond. Arthur’s head had already been turned upwards when he was looking at Merlin in the trees, so he unabashedly exploited the angle to come off as arrogant.

“And who is this, Merlin? He sounded quite concerned with your safety.”

 The black-haired man started, but quickly schooled his features, feigning surprise before Morgana turned her head to watch him. “He’s just my pupil. A noble hired me to teach his son about the fundamentals of magic. It’s been a bad year for the harvest, so I’m sending home what I can.”

Morgana did not speak for a moment, but then extended a languid hand towards Arthur, waving in his direction. “Tell me, Merlin: would you rather escape with your life or would you die saving a petty salary?” Merlin kept his gaze steady, but the stiffness in his expression spoke volumes, and Arthur cursed the sorcerer’s inability to remain emotionally detached. “You’ve always been a bad liar, Merlin.”

By this point, Arthur (in between feeling courageous and not shitting his trousers) had more or less figured out that the two must have been rivals of some sort. Considering the little he had seen of Morgana’s methods, he tentatively concluded that they disagreed on ethics (Merlin’s adored subject—unless Merlin hated it and had been making Arthur suffer purposely, which was all too likely).

“Be honest, Emrys. After all the meddling you’ve done I think you owe me that.” As she spoke, Morgana stared appraisingly at Arthur, intentionally unnerving both men.

The sorcerer bared his teeth―and Arthur was astonished at how Merlin had once shared the exact same expression with his feline self. “I don’t owe you anything, Morgana. It’s sorcerers like you that give the rest of us a bad name.” Perhaps chastised by the bitterness in the sorceress’ features, Merlin paused, curtailing his anger before continuing. “The kingdom is in a time of transition. If you give them right to fear us, magic will never be accepted.”

Drawn in by Merlin’s conciliatory tone, Arthur was suddenly struck by the sadness he could see in his friend’s eyes. Merlin was not fond of discussing it, but the only reason Merlin had been able to escape society’s wrath was because there had been no king to oversee the ongoing prohibition of magic. Unable to help himself, Arthur remembered their first meeting, how the sorcerer had stiffened after floating a spoon; then, during their outing as foxes―when Arthur was merely admiring the man’s eyes, all Merlin could think about was persecution. More than ever, Arthur wished he knew how to apologize for a world that did not accept him―but he could not even embrace the man because Morgana’s bloody spell kept him from doing so. Desperate, he stared at Merlin, trying to communicate it with his eyes (though, knowing their luck, Merlin would misinterpret it and  
think that Arthur needed to use the bathroom or something equally ridiculous).

Riled, Morgana threw up a hand, scowling. “And why shouldn’t they fear us, Merlin, when we have feared them our entire lives? Why should we have to hide what we are and be targeted for being open about it?”

Morgana suddenly stopped, seemingly taken aback by her own words. Slowly, she looked at Arthur and then back at Merlin (whose gaze―admittedly―had strayed to Arthur’s as Morgana answered). She did so a few more times, until a leisurely smile appeared on her face. “Oh. _Oh_. Merlin, I must congratulate you―I didn’t think you had it in you.” At her words, Merlin snapped to attention, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll make certain your widower receives proper compensation for his loss.” If Arthur’s concentration had been at their proper levels, the would-be knight would have taken more notice of the casual threat on his friend’s life. As it was, he was utterly distracted by the notion of Merlin as his wife, and was not at all amazed that he did not mind it in the least. In fact, he was so smug about Merlin being classed as the girl, that he almost― _almost_ ―missed the man’s grimace. It was the only factor that kept Arthur from releasing a grin that could compete with Merlin’s in levels of idiocy.  

“Keep your fantasies to yourself, Morgana. Arthur is my student, and nothing more.” Arthur ignored the slight pang he felt inside. “You might as well let him go. He doesn’t have the Gift, so he won’t try anything.” At this, Merlin sent one steady glare in his direction, daring him to try. Frustrated, Arthur pondered attacking Morgana _just_ to disobey him—but changed his mind, not wanting to be turned into a squirrel for the rest of his life.

Placated, Morgana waved a hand to free him—and though Arthur was relieved to have control of his body returned to him, he could not help but feel insulted at not being perceived as a threat. To further cement it, Morgana turned away from him in favor of speaking to Merlin. “Well, I have freed your _champion_. Now what will you order me to do?”

“Don’t over-dramatize the situation, Morgana. You and I both know that you want to be rid of me.” Arthur denied that he was about to have a panic attack. “And I doubt you’re desperate enough to kill me when I’m defenseless like this.”

The sorceress crossed her arms, letting out an exhale. “I won’t deny that you have your uses, but you are far more trouble than you are worth, Emrys,” she answered, sounding strangely uneasy. “What do you suggest?”

Merlin grinned―his smile more fitting to an invitation to tea. “A duel?”

The excitement in Morgana’s voice reflected her opponent’s smile. “The stakes?” she asked, darting a glimpse at Arthur (perturbing him immensely).

Merlin narrowed his eyes, implying that he had not missed the gesture. “Three hits. If I win, we both go free. If you win, you can kill me if that is what you want, but you can’t harm or do anything to Arthur.”

“Oh, please, Merlin,” Morgana drawled as she unfroze him. The two shook hands, a flicker of lightning passing in between their hands. “As though I’m interested in your sloppy seconds.” Arthur did not know how to respond to that.

“Follow then,” Morgana said as she headed in the opposite direction of her house. “There’s a clearing we can use that isn’t far from here.”

Arthur immediately sidled up to Merlin, making certain that there was a decent distance between them and the sorceress. “Merlin,” he began, seething, “you are the biggest dolt I have had the misfortune of ever meeting. What are you doing challenging people like that?” Merlin was hardly a fighter, and though the weapon of choice was magic, Arthur had the inkling that changing Morgana into woodland creatures would hardly slow her down.

As they passed through the magical barrier, Arthur felt an odd tremor travel up his spine. Checking on Merlin, he observed the sorcerer’s skin taking on a healthier hue. Ignoring what he had been taught about chivalry, Arthur whispered, “Go on, then. Attack while her defenses are lowered.”

“I can’t. I shook hands,” amiably answered Merlin. Out of the blue, his face darkened, focused on the figure leading the way. “I know what I’m doing, Arthur. This isn’t my first duel.” Somehow, it did not make him feel any better. Several moments passed before he decided to risk it, vaguely terrified that he might not have another chance.

Lowering his voice, Arthur tried, “Maybe you should let your ‘champion’ fight for you instead?”

For a moment Merlin just stared at him, as though gauging the seriousness of the offer. Too soon, the sorcerer rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “You know you can’t defeat Morgana without magic. You’d be killed.” Arthur would have retaliated that the same could be said for Merlin, but the group had arrived at the clearing and Arthur was interrupted by Morgana turning to address them.

“Ready when you are, Merlin.” She raised her chin and smiled, purposely fluttering her eyelashes. “Aren’t you going to take precautions to protect your _beloved_?” 

Merlin clenched his jaw but did indeed lead Arthur away to the side of the makeshift battleground. Without further ado, his eyes flashed gold and a spherical barrier rose and built itself around Arthur. It resembled Morgana’s spell aside from the color; while hers had been purple in hue, Merlin’s shined a translucent gold. For an overly maudlin moment, Arthur thought that if he were to ever be stuck in Merlin’s iris, this is what it would be like.

The sorcerer carefully placed a hand onto the shield (keeping it out of Morgana’s sight, Arthur noted) and spread out his fingers on its surface. “This should prevent any magic—or projectiles, for that matter—from coming through. Only you can pass through it,” he muttered, keeping his eyes trained on his fingers.

Acting on impulse, Arthur raised his own hand to where Merlin held his, replicating each finger’s position. Cautiously, a pair of blue eyes rose to meet Arthur’s, locking gazes. Before Merlin could say something stupid and ruin the moment, Arthur settled on doing it himself. “Merlin—”

“Are you two done being awkward at each other or am I going to have to reschedule?” rang out Morgana’s voice, shattering the calm and preventing what would have no doubt been something equally―if not more―awkward. Merlin turned around without a second’s hesitation, and Arthur swore under his breath, cursing himself for good measure.

~

Merlin determinedly stalked away from Arthur, putting him out of the forefront of his mind and steadying his gaze on Morgana. Oh gods, who was he kidding? He was fighting this duel for his future king, to protect him and all the land’s hopes with him—of course he would still be thinking about Arthur. Belatedly, Merlin regretted not asking Arthur for a token―both to mess with Morgana for assuming that they were lovers and also, admittedly, for himself. If Merlin was to risk his life for his king, then he might as well demand something in return. On the other hand, if Arthur knew that he was to become Camelot’s ruler, Merlin doubted he would have been pleased with his subject’s insolence.

Annoyed at his inner ramblings, Merlin attempted to bat them away, being aware that he could not afford to be distracted. Fortunately, as soon as he nodded to signal readiness, Morgana let loose a spell that the man just barely dodged. After that, concern over being able to focus dwindled to practically nothing.  

Out of the few sorcerers Merlin had encountered (Merlin had an infuriating habit of attracting rogue sorcerers and creatures of the Old Religion), some had preferred a style where they cast spells in volleys, one after the other, while others chose to time theirs perfectly. Morgana’s style, frustratingly, was eclectic and borrowed from both of these categories, and Merlin had to strain himself to predict her next move. He himself mostly belonged to the latter group, and only rarely combined attacks unless he intended to surprise.

The curious thing about a duel―in contrast to an actual fight―was that it was comprised purely of offensive rather than defensive spells. One of Merlin’s history books mentioned that this had not always been so, but that the rule had to be established for cases in which the duelers would remain in their respective shields and disgruntledly wait for the other to make the first move. Merlin could not imagine how anyone could be patient enough, but apparently some sorcerers were not only stubborn, but nigh-on insane, because the book had examples of duels that had lasted for days. Merlin felt bad for the person that had to referee those bouts.

“ _Sagittae ardoris carnificis. Iterum,_ ” chanted Morgana.

All the same, none of that mattered when Merlin’s survival depended on physically dodging one of Morgana’s onslaughts. He made sure to keep moving, aware of Morgana’s renowned aim. Moreover, the spells that barely missed him exploded against the surfaces they hit, doing so in a spray of colorful sparks. Although Merlin knew that coming into contact with them would not count as a point, he did not want to wait to see whether they would harm him. The sorcerer’s own spell was humming in his hand, just underneath the surface—he needed just one clear shot…

Merlin flailed as he fell forward, damning his luck at managing to catch his foot in a raised tree root. The mistake cost him a point against him, but, gritting his teeth, he ignored the burning at his shoulder (along with what he assumed was Arthur yelling at him in the distance) and outstretched his arm to release his own spell.

“ _Condemno!_ ” he aimed, pumping a fist when Morgana’s smirk faded as the golden blast hit her square in the chest. She let out a little shriek, whether out of pain or rage he could not tell. Either way, the attack tied the score for the moment.

“Well done, Merlin,” exclaimed Morgana after smoothing out her expression. “I wouldn’t have expected you to fight dirty with a girl.”

“Etiquette was never one of my strong points,” he bit back, “Still, compared to you, I’m practically a saint.”

“That’s hardly true, Emrys.” The two of them were not moving an inch, staring each other down—they might as well have been behind shields. Out of the blue, Morgana’s smile widened and she flicked her eyes toward Arthur, but Merlin knew better than to take his eyes off her.

Morgana raised her voice, blatantly making certain that Arthur would also hear. “And what of all those men you’ve killed over the years? Do you feel as though you can condone their deaths?”

Merlin frowned, confused despite himself. “You can’t condone murder, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. I’ve only ever killed out of self-defense. Kanen and his bandits would have laid waste to my home, and would have only gone on to do the same to another village. Any knight of the realm would have done as I had.” Despite his words, Merlin was too anxious to turn to Arthur for a nod of assurance.

“You forget what I am, Emrys. I’ve seen you in my dreams.” Merlin barely kept his demeanor, all too well aware that that was neither a compliment nor something to celebrate. “Each time I see you, your hands are soaked in the blood of hundreds. Can you blame me for wanting you dead? How is killing Kanen any different from killing you―before you become him?” Shocked, Merlin could only shake his head slightly in disbelief, afraid to look down at his hands lest they be covered in the blood Morgana spoke of.

“I don’t―why would I―?”

Suddenly looking tired, the seer sighed, “I wish I had the answer. The only other constant in the visions is that you always fight under the same banner. But I have never seen its equal.” Morgana shot a piercing look in Merlin’s direction, appearing demanding and yet somehow hopeful all at once. “Tell me, Emrys, _what sort of king could be worth so much bloodshed?_ ”

Merlin did not answer, afraid of revealing too much or too little of the truth to both Morgana and Arthur. Regardless, Merlin knew not to doubt a seer’s visions (though he had been taught to be wary of the obscurity of such things). He could not ignore what must be true: that in order to protect Arthur and the dream of a united Albion, he would do anything, including becoming a killer. The Dragon’s prophecy had felt so surreal and far away that Merlin had never wholly absorbed it. Struck by the reality of it, the sorcerer had never before felt so apprehensive.

Either from habit or an attack of masochism, Merlin finally looked at Arthur, expecting to see either shock, disgust, or an unpleasant combination of the two. Encouragingly, he found neither. Instead, Arthur had lifted both arms in exasperation, yelling, “For _fuck’s sake_ , Merlin! Have your emotional breakdown _after the fucking duel!_ ”

 “ _Langueo cubui quondam revoco!_ ” Merlin instantly cursed himself for being careless and cursed the sudden pain in his head and cursed Arthur because he could, scrambling away before Morgana could hit him with something else. He recognized that spell—he had to move fast if he wanted to win this duel. In the distance, he thought he heard Arthur yell out to him, but he ignored it, already feeling his awareness growing fuzzy.

Merlin had always known that he was special—not in the way his mother _or_ Arthur insisted, but in his magic. While most sorcerers had to study and memorize incantations to control magic, magic, at times, controlled him. That is not to say that he was possessed and liable to unknowingly take over the world one day, but often when he needed aid, the crucial spell would come to him unbidden. Sometimes all that was required was a flash of his—admittedly—creepy eyes and his enemies would fall like moths (or the clean floors would shine like diamonds).

This was one of those times. Merlin only focused on one thing: if he died, he could no longer protect Arthur and their Destiny―and Morgana was the only thing standing in his way. Without warning, a mass of rocks levitated upwards, glowing light-blue, and surrounded the sorceress from all sides—hovering for only a second before they all shot towards her. In between the chaos and thrashing, Merlin was certain that there had been at least two hits in there somewhere, and he sighed in relief as he sensed the deal made before the duel (the handshake) acknowledge his victory.  

Morgana was looking extremely put out and a bit like she had taken a tumble down a rocky hillside, but Merlin figured it was better not to further rile her up and tell her so. Besides, he was beginning to substantially feel the effects of the sorceress’ final spell, and he fought to keep his eyes focused and back straight. “I win, Morgana.” He could gloat later when he was away safe with Arthur. “As agreed, Arthur and I go free.”

She frowned, pensive, until her eyes cleared up and she raised her eyebrows. “Why, Merlin, you’re looking a little worse for wear. Not ill, are you? Here, I know just the thing for you…”

Merlin knew that he looked like an idiot staggering backwards like that, yet he could not help it, and the purple light growing in Morgana’s palms was menacing enough that he did not mind risking his already tarnished reputation. “Morgana! You have to keep to the agreement! It’ll only backfire on you.”

“Emrys, you understand that I can’t let this lie. For the good of the future, I cannot” the sorceress intoned, expression serious, “I swore that I would let you go free, but I never said I wouldn’t leave you within an inch of death.”

Merlin swore at himself once again for not having the foresight to be more specific. He was usually far more competent when it came to the subject of magic, but―in his defense―he had been stripped of his powers at the time and had felt practically naked. Disoriented by his illness and unable to recall the proper incantation, Merlin struggled to focus his magic, urging it to incapacitate Morgana on its own.

Ultimately it proved unnecessary, as his enemy abruptly keeled over forwards, landing ungracefully on her face, out cold. Arthur stood behind her, wielding a tree branch, of all things. At that moment, looking up at Arthur, Merlin thought he could see the men they would grow into, could see his future self making certain that the future’s Arthur would never have to solely carry the burdens of a heavy crown. Suddenly, Morgana’s visions sounded a lot more credible. It was either that or the illness was addling Merlin’s brain―which was not completely implausible because he suspected he was close to hallucinating crowns.

Arthur tossed the branch aside with distaste, muttering, “This is hardly chivalrous behavior.” Regardless, the blond turned towards Merlin with an almost gentle smile, crouching down next to him (Merlin was not sure at what point he had ended up on the ground). “Hey,” he said.  

“Hey,” mimicked Merlin, but only because he was having trouble making certain that there was only one Arthur. He shook his head to clear it.

The blond furrowed his eyebrows. “Merlin, are you…?”

“No,” Merlin quickly replied, “definitely not fine. Think I’m ready to fall over. Help?” Arthur was more than ready to help—looking generally pale and on the brink of fainting was apparently the way to tug at Arthur’s heartstrings (Merlin put this information aside for later). He pulled the sorcerer up, wrapping a strong arm around his waist. Merlin, in his not-quite-yet-delirious state, had some sense left to quietly rail against the world about how unfair his life was. Damn Arthur for being handsome and a surprisingly selfless guy (when it mattered) and, above all, heterosexual and overly friendly. 

“Merlin, what did she do to you?” Arthur’s murderous tone only made him _more_ depressed, oddly enough. The blond spared a glimpse at the prone figure on the ground, perchance considering dropping her off a cliff.

“Don’t worry. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Fine…” By this point Merlin was losing it—he could tell because he actually hummed contentedly when Arthur wrapped his arms around him and Merlin leaned his head on the man’s shoulder. Gods, Gwen would have killed to see this, Merlin realized.

“Merlin? What should I…?”

“Home,” Merlin managed, eyes already closed, “and rest.” After that Merlin was aware of Arthur putting him down carefully and scurrying around (which he truly regretted not being conscious enough to see). At one point, Arthur had procured water from someplace and held his head while Merlin drank, but that was the last coherent memory before the rest swam together and he did not know what was happening at all.

~

The worst part was not dragging Merlin back to the castle. Though far from feather light, the sorcerer weighed less than Arthur and the latter could have already qualified as a knight. Nevertheless, lacking horses, it would still take hours to return (they had flown out farther than Arthur had imagined, and he had to risk leaving Merlin alone while he climbed a tree to be certain they were headed the right way), and daylight was steadily growing thin.

Arthur trudged through the forest, holding Merlin up by his thighs as the man leaned against his back. Merlin could not hold onto Arthur’s shoulders, unconscious as he was, so Arthur had awkwardly bound their upper torsos together so that the sorcerer would not fall backwards. He had found the rope in Morgana’s dwelling—neither of which, surprisingly, had attempted to attack him. The blond had even stolen some water (not that Morgana cared, since she was still passed out where Arthur had left her) but had not touched it despite his thirst and fatigue, leaving it all for Merlin whenever he had to pause for breath.

No, the worst part of it all was not knowing what the fuck was wrong with Merlin and what the fuck was going to happen to him and what the fuck Arthur was going to do about it—and when did he start caring so much about Merlin anyway? Arthur had probably been doomed from the very moment he had met the man. At any rate, he tried to tell himself to stop being so anxious, especially since Merlin himself told him not to worry (Arthur was not panicking—he was in fact frighteningly calm and probably cleared a radius of twenty meters for himself with just his expression).

Despite his earlier assurances, Merlin’s fever increased with every mile trekked and the trembling at Arthur’s back was beginning to scare the living daylights out of him. Once evening had finally fallen, Arthur, during his short breaks (which were rapidly growing shorter), clutched at the man in a desperate attempt to keep him from shaking. Holding Merlin to his chest, Arthur only now observed how much more fragile the man seemed in comparison to him. Of course, thought the almost-knight with a smirk, Merlin would probably threaten to turn him into something revoltingly adorable for the rest of his life if he so much as uttered a word about it.

Arthur did not want to blind himself with hope, but he could not help but wish Merlin would regain consciousness. This was not only because he was getting physically tired of lugging him around, but mostly so that the sorcerer could slowly become aware of Arthur holding him―after which perhaps Arthur would not have to be so guarded with his feelings. The blond did not know how to court a man―it was not something his tutors had thought to teach him, strangely enough―and he could not assess whether Merlin would appreciate advances from another man. (Gwen had assured him that he would, but she had not said that Merlin had admitted to it, only that she had assumed so―and even Gwen could be wrong.) There were times when Merlin was so open that Arthur had thought he had seen his feelings reflected in the man’s face, but other times he wondered whether it had simply been a concession of friendship.

Arthur cursed Merlin’s lousy timing, hoisting him up onto his back again. Home and aid were so close that he could almost taste them.

~

It was Gwen who ultimately helped Arthur support Merlin during the home stretch. She had grown curious as to their whereabouts (though, in her place, Arthur would have been more concerned) and was waiting for them on the castle’s front steps. Her bizarre smile had immediately dropped when she caught sight of the two and in a matter of seconds was by their side. Thankfully, the maid was stronger than Arthur had given her credit (or perhaps anyone would appear so in comparison to his currently nigh-on depleted reserves).

Once they reached the bedroom (no small feat, considering all of those stairs), Arthur told Gwen to pull back the covers of his bed (it was more comfortable than Merlin’s cot) as he dragged the sorcerer towards it. Settling him down, Arthur pulled off Merlin’s boots, and then moved on to the tunic, keeping in mind the area where he had seen Merlin take a hit.

Gwen, who had yet to leave to fetch help, watched the slow progress with such a meaningful expression that Arthur scowled at her in retaliation and pointedly left Merlin’s trousers on before tucking him in. She ran off after that, but Arthur assumed it was because she had seen the angry wound on Merlin’s shoulder rather than because she had felt threatened.

As soon as they were alone, Arthur perched on the bed by the man’s side, reaching over to feel at his forehead. His hand came away clammy and hot, but he absentmindedly wiped it off against his trousers, beyond disgust.  

“You idiot,” he whispered, watching Merlin’s eyes rolling under his lids, “Never take your gaze off of your opponent. That’s one of the first things you learn.”

Not long after, Gwen arrived with the physician in tow. They made just enough noise in the corridor that Arthur had ample time to snatch his hand away from Merlin’s mouth before anyone was the wiser. The physician was an elderly man that Arthur did not care enough to catch the name of. Aside from the fact that the physician cleaned up Merlin’s wound—something that Arthur could have easily managed on his own―the old man proved to be of no help whatsoever.

After being told about the duel, the physician immediately lost interest, claiming that he did not deal with magical ailments, and that if the patient himself had “assured” Arthur of his eventual recovery, then he could do nothing more. Truly, it was only thanks to Gwen physically holding him back that Arthur did not attack the physician (though he did tell him exactly where he could stick the money they owed him). After that, the old man seemed to take offense and ran away without further ado.

And that was how Arthur ended up in a chair beside Merlin’s bedside, knowing perfectly well that, in a world where he had never met Merlin Emrys, Arthur Pendragon would never be foregoing much-needed sleep for the sake of another’s health. Nor would he be making certain that the cloth on Merlin’s forehead remained cool, for that matter.

At some point in the night, Gwen brought Arthur a blanket and some tea, and even stoked the fire without bothering to ask if he wanted her to. Tired, Arthur was grateful to her that she did not comment about him gently holding Merlin’s hand. Gwen might have even smiled at the sight—but it could have been a trick of the light. 

~

For the next two days, Arthur told himself to forget that such a concept as “sleep” ever existed. It would be the understatement of the era to say that this was because he was worried about Merlin. Perhaps a week ago he would have been surprised at his future self, but seeing his friend fight against Morgana had inspired an urgency born out of fear. Merlin was special―not in the way Arthur liked to tease him about―but in a way that Arthur could not truly grasp. He had always known the man had magic ( _floating sugar spoons_ ), but it was only now that he realized just how powerful the sorcerer was, and how much potential he had. And with that power, Merlin attracted more danger than one sorcerer ever should.

Though he was certain that Merlin would have preferred the opposite, Arthur had not overlooked Morgana’s prophecy. The woman, based on her words, was a dream seer: one who could see visions of the future in her sleep―and she had envisioned Merlin as a warrior. If Arthur were to have his way, Merlin would never have to fear nor fight for his life. In his fantasy―inspired by a deprivation of sleep―Arthur would finally reach knighthood and Merlin would be free to use his magic in public, would perhaps open up a shop selling charms and spells. The two of them would have rooms above the shop and no one would think to question why they lived together, neither wanting to be pummeled nor cursed. Faintly, Arthur remembered Morgana’s words: _Why should we have to hide what we are?_

However, if the seer’s nightmares proved true, this idyllic daydream would be swept away regardless of whether Arthur―and perchance Merlin―wished for it to remain. As Arthur understood it, the restless kingdom would one day choose its king, and already he had heard rumors of disarray in the far lands. If Camelot was to survive a war, it would require a strong leader. That leader, Arthur admitted glumly, would need warriors, and who better to recruit than a sorcerer? Merlin had time yet to bloody his hands, but Arthur made a promise to himself, there and then, that the sorcerer― _his_ sorcerer―would never have to stand alone. Knight or no, he would follow Merlin into battle, protecting him if his magic ever failed them. For the first time since he had met Merlin, Arthur finally felt that he understood what they were destined for.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. He was extremely tired from both lack of sleep and the undue amount of stress. His mind was not functioning terribly well either, which had manifested into Arthur procuring a book of fairy tales and reading it out loud to Merlin. It might have been his imagination but it had seemed as though the sorcerer fidgeted less as he did so. Whether it was the effect of the stories or just the sound of Arthur’s voice was unknown, but Arthur smugly decided that it was the latter. Regrettably, Arthur’s solution had not been applicable to an extended amount of time (he began to confuse the heroes with the villains despite the dark clothing and overdramatic cackling) and so he had eventually put the stories aside.   

Arthur settled for leaning an elbow on his bed, watching the man’s face drowsily. “I was thinking that maybe you could turn us into fish next.” He waited for a reply, though it was evidently not coming. “Yeah, you’re right. You would do something to screw it up, like make the gills face the wrong way. Drowning fish. Humiliating.” Shaking his head slightly, Arthur decided that perhaps this line of conversation was not the best for his sluggish mind. He went to lift the cloth from Merlin’s face and dip it into the water bucket, putting it back once it was not dripping like a waterfall.

Exhausted and seemingly having nothing better to do, Arthur plopped his head onto the nearest surface he could find; naturally, it happened to be Merlin’s stomach. The man vaguely wondered just when the blanket had managed to slip down that far, but did not care so much in the end, and nuzzled his face into the pale skin. “Soft,” he said, muffled.

In a moment of being uncharacteristically maudlin, Arthur took one of Merlin’s hands and put it to his own hair, holding it there lest it tumble off and actually make Arthur want to cry (or laugh hysterically—he was not sure which). He screwed up his eyes tightly, ignoring the stinging and almost wishing that he just had some terrible eye infection and was not actually tearing up. He blamed the lack of sleep.  

“You said not to worry,” whispered Arthur, voice uneven, “but you never actually said you were going to be fine. I get that you were just about unconscious, but couldn’t you have been a little more specific with your instructions? Something like, ‘Well, Arthur, I’m going to be on the brink of death for a few days, during which I expect you to remain by my side and lose your mind with worry, and then cry like a girl just when all hope seems lost, after which I will miraculously recover and get turned on by you sobbing on my bare chest’?”

Out of principle, Arthur snuck a peek at the sorcerer’s face, only to be disappointed when nothing of the sort had occurred. Sighing, he narrowed his eyes, admitting that he was not making much sense to even himself anymore. And so, he continued to watch in silence, not bothering to count the minutes as they passed.

“Arthur,” said Gwen, just behind him. The blond did not even have the energy to properly startle at the sound, resigning himself to the fact that there was no way to convince her that what she currently saw was not what she thought it was. Still, after he sat up—albeit reluctantly—Arthur saw that she was not smug as he had anticipated, but rather had a soft expression on her face.

“Arthur, you should really get some sleep,” she glanced at Merlin’s stomach, “properly. You’re no good to him if you’re dead on your feet.” The blond opened his mouth to protest, gesturing at the sorcerer behind him, but Gwen waved a hand. “I’ll take care of Merlin, Arthur. Get some rest or I’ll tell Merlin later what you were doing.”

Acknowledging the verity behind the threat, Arthur quickly made his way to Merlin’s cot, only pushing off his boots before falling onto the bed without bothering with the covers.

~

Arthur did not know how long he was out for, but the sun was shining outside when he finally resurfaced; he felt a lot more refreshed and seemed to be able to reason well enough. Looking around, he was gratified to observe Gwen tending to a healthier-looking Merlin, and closed his eyes in silent relief. The maid must have heard him scuffling about, because she soon turned her head towards him and gave him a smile.

“Arthur, there you are. Feeling better?”

The blond thought that it was an ironic statement given that it was Merlin who was actually ill, but he answered nonetheless. “Yes. My head’s much clearer anyway.”

“Well,” began Gwen merrily, “you missed Merlin calling out to you.”

Arthur fell just short of tumbling out of the bed. “What?! When?”

“Oh, in the middle of the night or so. I believe he was delirious, since no one in their conscious mind would call out to _you_.” Gwen was having far too much fun given the situation at hand.

Ignoring her, Arthur walked up to the man in his bed, checking his now noticeably cooler forehead. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Gwen looked about ready to laugh, though not cruelly. “I tried—multiple times actually. But each time you just sort of snorted at me, and I left it at that. He subsided soon after anyway,” she patted Merlin’s hand, “probably realizing it was a lost cause.”

Arthur felt his face heat up―not with the knowledge that Merlin had called out _his name_ (although this required further contemplation), but because at the moment when Merlin had needed him, Arthur had been asleep, apparently dreaming about pigs. Gwen seemed to sense his guilt and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Somewhat mollified, Arthur was about to resume his post when the maid spoke up.

“Sir Ector wanted to see you.”

“Did he say why?” Arthur asked, surprised. He had barely seen his foster father since the day he had first met Merlin—not that he was complaining.

“Not really. It’s odd though. He wanted to see you right away, but I told him that you were asleep. I was sure he was going to tell me to wake you up but then when I mentioned Merlin he immediately backed off and told me to alert you once you were awake.” That must have been Merlin’s spell at work―the one he had cast to make certain Sir Ector would not meddle in their lessons. In response to Arthur’s silence, Gwen leaned forward, narrowing her eyes conspiringly. “Merlin didn’t happen to threaten anyone at one point, did he?”

Arthur only smirked, sparing a fond look at the sorcerer. “You could say that.”

~

“Ah, my boy, there you are.” Arthur finally found Sir Ector in his study, writing something that was likely not as important as he was making it out to look. “You must have guessed why I’ve called you.”

Arthur tried to stand still―doing his best to soothe his impatience―and honestly answered, “Not really, no.”

Sir Ector gave him a speculating look. “You haven’t heard about the competition?”

Arthur shook his head, although he could sense his warrior’s instincts awakening at the word. “I’ve been busy these past two days. My friend is ill.” Presuming that Sir Ector would send him away at the mere mention of Merlin’s name, Arthur held it back, curious despite himself. He paused, keeping his own enthusiasm in check. If he wished to become a knight, he would have to act like one. “What’s the competition?”

“It’s a great chance for Kay to prosper, that’s what!” Immediately, Arthur deflated, but did his utmost to hide it. “Whoever comes out champion is to be crowned king of Camelot!” Arthur almost laughed at the unlikely image of Kay on the throne. “Now, there’s no one else around that could serve as Kay’s squire on such short notice, so you, Arthur, will have to do it. The competition itself lasts a couple of days, so don’t plan anything then. We’ve only got three days until—”

“Hold on,” interrupted Arthur, hesitant, “My friend is still sick. I need to attend to him.”

Sir Ector’s easy façade fell in on itself and he frowned, abruptly resembling a fish, of all things. “Well, get that girl to take care of him. What’s her name―Guin?”

“Gwen.”

“Yes, right, her. Your friend won’t die from lack of your company, I’m sure.” And yet, Arthur would hate himself for not being there for Merlin. “Now go and see to Kay—there’s plenty of armor to polish and set to rights—”

Angered, Arthur squared his shoulders and scowled, new desires overcoming childhood dreams. “Look here, it is _Merlin_ who’s sick, and I care—” Arthur cut himself off, deciding that his personal interest in Merlin’s well-being was better left unmentioned.

“Oh, Merlin, you say?” Sir Ector blinked owlishly―the effects of enchantment visible in his expression. “Never mind then, we’ll think of something else.” And just like that, the man turned back to his writing, and Arthur was frankly stunned at the power behind the spell. Now that his protests had been so easily taken into account, Arthur could not help but feel a sharp stab of regret, childhood dreams remembered. To be fair, Merlin _was_ getting better, and there was still time before the tournament. Besides, this could be his only chance at becoming a knight, and though that was something he had desired from an early age, it had quickly become affixed to Merlin’s fate as well.

“Listen,” Arthur eventually spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Just as soon as Merlin gets better, I’ll help out. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll be Kay’s squire on Friday.”

Sir Ector lifted his head with a smile, “Ah, I knew I could depend on you, my boy. Now go and make sure your friend gets better by then.”

Arthur smiled to himself as he went out of the study, feeling more hope than ever for seeing his dreams fulfilled. The little that Merlin had divulged in regards to his Destiny had stressed greatness and strength―and Arthur liked to believe that he was on the right path. If Merlin was destined to be the future king’s sorcerer―and if Arthur wanted to be close to him―then he would have to somehow become one of the king’s trusted knights, either through a show of deeds or by forging a crest of nobility. And even if that were to fail, Arthur supposed that no one would think to question a powerful sorcerer if he felt like hiring a bodyguard.

By the time Arthur returned to his room, he could see that Gwen was beginning to nod off. It was actually quite an entertaining sight, though Arthur considered pushing her over for all the insinuating she had been doing, but he relented in the end. Instead he poked her, waking her up. “Come on, Gwen. It’s my turn. Go ahead and go sleep.”

She yawned, “All right, I’ll admit that I’m not used to staying up all night like some people,” here she stared at Arthur in such a way that he choked from the implication, “but I’ll get you some food before I do.” With that, the maid left, fixing her hair where it had been mussed.

Shaking his head, Arthur turned to sit at the chair beside the bed, reaching over to hold Merlin’s face in one hand, conceding that he may not be able to do so once he gained consciousness. For all he knew, Merlin really was just self-conscious and those glances had been imagined. Arthur let out a put-upon sigh, stroking his thumb across the man’s cheek. “Wake up, Merlin.” 

~

Merlin realized, as he felt himself waking up, that he was definitely not lying on anything familiar. Indeed, the mattress was a lot thicker and softer than what he usually slept on. The real question was why he happened to be lying on it in the first place, though Merlin figured that he had probably died in some terrible fashion and this was supposed to be consolation.

It took him a moment to remember the duel with Morgana, but remember he did—and along with that came the memory of his undue drooling on Arthur (pleasant though it had been). Unthinkingly, he let out a quiet and frustrated groan, hoping that Arthur had not read into his delirium-prompted actions. Immediately after, he heard movement at his side, and, upon opening his eyes, saw a concerned Arthur looking down at him. Still somewhat sleep-addled, Merlin both wanted to smile and ask what had happened, so ultimately he only managed a silly expression that Arthur chuckled at. He did not know whether to bury his head in the pillow or feign unconsciousness, but this was about the moment when Merlin observed that he had been sleeping in _Arthur’s_ bed.

“Hey,” muttered Arthur. “How are you feeling?”

Merlin considered the question; disregarding his inner turmoil regarding the bed, his half-naked state (he had a lovely new scar now), and Arthur in general (in big, capital letters), he did not feel too bad. “Tired,” he ultimately answered, then added, “And hungry.”

Merlin almost yelped when his admission prompted Arthur to jump out of his seat as though his behind was on fire, heading for the door. “Right, it’s been three days. You must be starving.” Merlin barely held in his laughter when Arthur just about tripped upon exiting, but then settled to wait for his return. Still feeling exposed, Merlin stared up at the ceiling in hopes that it would relinquish his shirt. A little voice in his head told him that its disappearance was suspect, but he quickly quieted it by glancing at his healing shoulder. 

He dozed off after that, but was immediately awakened by the opening of the door and the telltale smell of food. Arthur walked in, balancing a bowl of stew with undue concentration (if he stared at it any more intensely it would turn itself over from mere fright). “I hope that’s for me,” said Merlin, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

The blond finally broke off his staring contest, smirking up at Merlin. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin. I dragged this food all the way here just so that you could watch me enjoy it.” Disregarding his words, he brought it over to Merlin. “Here take it, it’s not too hot. Need me to help you eat?” he added innocently.

“Oh please,” scoffed Merlin, “I may be a little weak but I’m not completely helpless.” Arthur seemed satisfied with this answer and sat back to wait—presumably for Merlin to finish. “So, how did I end up here?”

Arthur shot his chin up arrogantly, “I carried you, of course.” Merlin’s insides gurgled upon receiving the stew, having had little to digest in the days he had been unconscious, and definitely not because he had suddenly acquired butterflies in his stomach―or so he told himself. Faintly, he wished that he had not been dead to the world during their passage back. He considered sending a cursed letter to Morgana, but reconsidered when he concluded that she would be too clever to open it.  

“I, uh―I hope I wasn’t too much of a burden.”

Arthur gave him a long-suffering look, and Merlin was aware that he was not pretending. “Merlin, you’re always a burden, you just have to live with the fact.”

Putting the empty bowl back on the nearby desk (his speed of inhaling food had a direct relationship with his hunger), the sorcerer grinned, “It sounds to me like you’re the one who has to live with it.”

Arthur nodded, smirking, “You can’t imagine how much I must endure with you around.” True to his (sarcastic) words, when he leaned forward to grab the dish, Merlin noticed the pronounced bruises under Arthur’s eyes. He almost thought to call him out on it, but held back at the last second, deciding to mull it over on his own. Merlin recalled Arthur saying something about three days, and so he anxiously wondered just how little of those Arthur had spent sleeping.

Bowl in hand, the man stood beside the bed for an awkward moment, looking as though he only just realized that he had given up his bed to Merlin, even though it would have been a difficult fact to miss. In an instant of clear insanity, Arthur stepped forward once, and Merlin stared, not certain whether Arthur wanted to embrace him or push him off and reclaim his bed.

Ultimately, the blond did neither and instead cleared his throat, patting Merlin’s shoulder. “Right then, glad to have you back among the living. Get some more rest and get better. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Soothed by the statement but albeit disappointed by the sorry alternative for a hug, Merlin nodded absentmindedly, lying back down. Once Arthur had left, Merlin took a deep breath, expecting Arthur’s scent but finding the pillow smelling of himself. It took some rather skilled maneuvering and rodent-like sniffing to find an unspoiled patch, but once he did, the sorcerer settled down with a smile.

~

It took far less time for Merlin to regain consciousness the second time around. Mostly it was because he was finally feeling healthy again, but he knew too well that it was partially because he had expected to find Arthur there waiting for him (to finally vacate his bed). Accordingly, Merlin’s disappointment upon finding Gwen instead of the man was understandable. Still, when he sat up and Gwen flashed him a world-winning smile, he immediately felt the guilt travel up his throat (or maybe he was just hungry again). Ignoring his fixation with Arthur, Merlin easily returned the smile, acknowledging that even in his comatose state he had missed his friend.

“Oh Merlin, I was so worried!” Gwen exclaimed, abruptly launching herself at the sorcerer without any regard to his partial lack of clothing. “Arthur did say you were better, but I couldn’t be sure…”

Merlin gingerly patted her back, grinning despite himself. “I’m perfectly all right, Gwen. I’ve just lost a little weight, that’s all.”

The maid sat back, giving him a shrewd look. “We’ll be fattening you up, then. Be prepared.” She quieted before adding with that crazed smile of hers, “Did you know that you were calling out Arthur’s name at one point?”

If any blood had returned to Merlin’s face, then it certainly flowed out right then. “Oh gods, please tell me that Arthur didn’t hear.”

Gwen sat back on the chair and crossed her arms. “No, he was asleep then.” She paused to absorb Merlin’s relief before dropping the hatchet. “But I did tell him when he woke up.”

All of a sudden, the blood rushed back to his face―after which Merlin was afraid that he would faint if this continued. Knowing Gwen, he would have to be suffering consecutive heart attacks before she yielded. Privately, he desperately hoped that Arthur had not interpreted the cries the wrong way―although given Arthur’s orientation, he might have hopefully attributed it to their friendship. This made Merlin want to both sigh in relief and then cry. 

“Oh Merlin, you don’t know how happy I am to see your blushing maiden act again! You looked like death, before.” Here the maid sobered, squeezing the sorcerer’s hand nervously. “We were very worried. Arthur especially.” Merlin paused in his reflection on the pros and cons of hiding in a closet for the rest of life to listen. “He didn’t sleep a wink for two days, and even then I had to threaten him with blackmail to force him to rest.”

Merlin took a moment to imagine the scene, taking pleasure in that he was not the only one being mothered (if it could be called that) by the woman―but this was before the actual meaning of the words got through to him. Arthur was noble when it came down to it―Merlin knew this―but refraining from sleep just to look after Merlin was stretching it. The spark of hope in his mind warmed slightly, but Merlin immediately shook his head to dismiss the feeling. Something still did not sit right with him, and he wanted to figure out what it was.

“So,” began Merlin, carefully keeping the quaver out of his tone, “where’s our hero now, then?”

Gwen rolled her eyes before answering, “Preparing for some competition. Sir Ector assigned him as Kay’s squire again at the last minute.”

“Competition?”

“Yes, all the knights in the land will be partaking in it. From what Arthur’s told me, the winner will be crowned the king of Camelot! Can you imagine? Some random idiot who doesn’t even know the first thing about diplomacy could win! It’s terrible!” Upon hearing the words, Merlin stilled, heart freezing up and brain shutting down for a moment.

“King?” he finally echoed.

“Don’t make me start,” replied Gwen, standing up. “I’ll go get you some food. Oh, and do you want me to draw you a bath?”

Distractedly, Merlin answered, “No, I’ll just spell myself clean.” Gwen glanced amusedly at him before leaving, shutting the door behind her and leaving Merlin to panic silently. The man in question stood up cautiously, but began to pace once he found his legs were no longer wobbly from the illness.

This competition could be the ruin of Arthur’s Destiny unless something was to be done. The best option would be to impede it from ever taking place, but Merlin doubted that he could find a spell powerful enough to brainwash everyone into forgetting about it―not without missing countless people anyway, and that would cause even more problems. Besides, Camelot needed a king―that much was certain.

Running his hands through his hair, Merlin shook his head, attempting to keep from panicking. Though he had done his best to mentor Arthur as the Dragon had instructed, Merlin had no evidence to suggest that his methods had been working. From what he had seen, the only difference the lessons had made was that the two had become close friends. And though Merlin was tentatively prepared to follow his liege to the ends of the earth, he did not believe Arthur was yet ready to become this prophesized “Once and Future King”. Certainly, Arthur had read several books on all manner of subjects, but Merlin suspected that the most he got from those was a desire to murder the sorcerer in his sleep, and that outcome was better avoided. On the other hand, their outings had helped Merlin reach one of the goals he had set: for Arthur to embrace magic rather than scorn it. And yet, what was the point if Arthur did not know what it was for? Merlin winced at the thought, keenly regretting not having told his friend the whole truth about his Destiny. The blond was certainly arrogant enough―he probably would have believed him with little encouragement.

The only present solution was to convince Arthur that he needed to join the tournament, but how he could get away with that while remaining Kay’s squire Merlin could not fathom. He would have to persuade Arthur to abandon Kay, because the sorcerer did not think transforming himself into Arthur and posing as Kay’s squire would work out well. There was also the matter of lacking documents that proved Arthur’s nobility. Certainly, the sorcerer could spell up some legitimate-looking papers claiming Arthur the Lord of some imaginary land―but he might accidentally induce himself into a coma trying to design the fancy borders and calligraphy.  

Furthermore, there was always the possibility that Arthur had little chance of actually winning the prize. Besides emerging victorious, the best he could do would probably be to gain some attention, while the worst would be to receive a fatal wound―and Merlin could not have that, future king or not. He liked to believe that Arthur was no pushover, but all of the other knights had had advantageous training, whereas he had to pool his experience from eclectic sources. When it came down to it, Merlin had no idea at what level Arthur fought―not having anyone besides Kay to compare him with. For all he knew, pushing Arthur into the tournament would be like throwing a lamb to the wolves.

Perturbed by the analogy, Merlin placed a hand over his eyes, quieting his inner ramblings for a moment so that he could recover the rest of his clothes in peace.

~

Arthur marched up the stairs, rubbing his neck to dispel the strain there. He had only meant to check in with Kay but, before he knew it, his foster brother had overloaded him with tasks and then proceeded to order him around just when Arthur thought he had a chance to escape. Still, despite Kay treating him like a servant and Arthur’s wish to see how Merlin was faring, Arthur could not deny that he was glad of the opportunity to stretch his limbs after being cooped up for so long. Arthur’s body was made for action; it was one of the reasons why he had initially wanted to become a knight, rather than the scholar Merlin was seemingly trying to force him to be.

Of course, that did not rule out the frustration still hovering on the edge of Arthur’s senses. He was looking forward to being able to relax for a while and catch up on some sleep―as soon as he was assured of Merlin’s recovery, that is. Though, if he were lucky, Merlin would still be asleep and Arthur could take a nap while he waited.

Speed-walking the remaining distance to his door, Arthur was only momentarily disappointed when he found that Merlin was _not_ actually asleep, but then he immediately perked up when his brain absorbed that the healthy-looking sorcerer was now fully dressed and standing by the window, looking out. Merlin’s arms were crossed and he only briefly turned his head towards Arthur, acknowledging him with a slight smile before looking back out.

The blond wanted to mock him for the uncharacteristically silent greeting, but realized he would look like a fool doing it―and Merlin would no doubt tell him so. Arthur suddenly remembered saying that he would be here when the man awoke and he instantly felt guilty, but brushed it off, sauntering up to lean on the windowsill. Merlin was not as idiotic as he purported himself to be―he knew that Arthur had had other duties before their lessons began and so would undoubtedly understand his absence. Besides, Gwen would have told him about the tournament coming up, and he liked to think that Merlin knew how important becoming a knight was to him.

“Have I lately mentioned what an absolute idiot you are, Merlin?” The sorcerer in question did not reply, only blinked in either agreement or negation. He still did not look at Arthur, and the latter was already beginning to form ideas on how to achieve that end. “We really need to work on your fighting skills. Who in their right mind actually gives in to an opponent’s attempts to distract them?” Arthur smiled faintly, hoping that Merlin would recognize that he was not actually angry with him.

“My _dueling_ skills are perfectly fine. If you hadn’t been there, Morgana wouldn’t have been able to distract me in the first place.” Arthur blinked in surprise; Merlin’s voice had taken on an oddly neutral note― almost absentminded in tone. The blond registered that he had rarely ever seen Merlin act like this―but then he remembered that his friend had been ill these past few awful days. This might have been a repercussion of the curse, or perhaps Merlin was just tired. He was about to ask when Merlin shifted a little and Arthur’s focus was directed elsewhere―such as to the sight of the sorcerer swallowing.

Intentionally changing the subject, Arthur jerked his chin out the window, the castle of Camelot jutting out in the distance. “See something interesting?”

Merlin exhaled out of his nose, blinking. “I was thinking about the competition.”

“Why, Merlin, are you considering entering?” Arthur asked with a gleam in his eye. “I do have to squire for Kay, but I could probably pull a few strings. Hey, why don’t we knock Kay unconscious and stuff him in a closet? Then you can grab his armor and―”

“Stop it, Arthur,” Merlin barked, finally looking at him. Arthur stared, shock rendering him speechless. He vaguely registered that Merlin’s hand, resting on the sill, was clutched into a fist. Now he was really considering asking Merlin about that curse, but he did not quite know how to approach the subject.  

“No, I’m not,” Merlin finally said, responding to Arthur’s joking, “but I think that you should.”

Arthur, jolted out of his stupor by Merlin’s naivety, felt his frustration from before returning in full force. “Merlin, what are you going on about?”

“I’m serious, you should enter,” Merlin reiterated, punctuating his words with a solid thump from his fist (Arthur privately thought that Merlin would end up bruising himself if he kept this up, but he did not think Merlin would appreciate his mentioning it).

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawled in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You have to be an actual knight to enter, and I’m not.” Not yet, Arthur thought to himself.

“Well,” Merlin said as he wrung his hands, “what about your idea? Take Kay’s place.”

Arthur crossed his arms, glowering when he should have been amused. “And what then, you would turn yourself into me?” There was a spark of narcissistic pride in knowing that Merlin would probably agree to it―eventually―but he ignored it for the sake of argument. “You don’t know the first thing about being a squire, and I’m definitely not letting you change me into Kay. I’m not used to fighting in another person’s body, and Kay’s isn’t exactly fine-tuned for combat. Being turned into an animal is one thing, but if I need to fight, I need to have muscle memory.” To demonstrate, Arthur slashed his arm through the air as though he were holding a sword, Merlin’s eyes following the movement intently. “I’d lose.” Besides, if Arthur was ever to win a tournament, there was only reason to do so in his own body. How else was he to gain a reputation and set his plans into motion?  

“I only meant that you could take his armor―borrow his crest―so you could enter,” Merlin explained, crossing his arms. “It was only a suggestion.”

About to drop the subject, Arthur paused, struck by the fact that Merlin, though he did not necessarily denounce it, had never encouraged his interest in warfare. “Why do you want me to enter anyway?”

The black-haired man suddenly steeled his gaze on Arthur, staring as though he was about to break the news that Arthur had contracted some terrible disease and had only a day left before he keeled over. If Arthur was not so perplexed about their conversation, he would have liked for Merlin to continue staring at him, but presently it was just too unnerving.

“You do realize that this competition will determine the next king?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, attempting to lighten the mood without having to resort to some facetious remark that would undoubtedly get him killed. “Merlin, you can’t be saying that you want me to become king.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows meaningfully, glancing once towards Camelot. “Arthur, you said yourself that we would be doomed if the king were chosen based on brute force. How is this not ‘brute force’?”

Arthur crossed his arms, scowling out the window; he knew Merlin was right, but the subject made him more defensive than compliant. “That’s no reason why _I_ should win based on brute force, as you say. What would be the difference?” Merlin was silent, worrying at his lip in a way that Arthur pointedly chose to ignore. “Besides, who said that I wanted to be king? I would make a terrible ruler and you know it, Merlin.” Furthermore, as king, he would have a duty to _all_ of his subjects―and not just to his friend. Not only would he be unable to guard Merlin’s life in battle, but if he wished to court him, he could do so solely in secret. Arthur did not think he could give up Merlin―be it his friendship or his affections―for a seat on the throne. It was not worth the sacrifice.

“But,” Merlin tried, sounding desperate, “the competition…”

Arthur had had enough: he was overtired and Kay was a gigantic prick and all of these suppressed feelings for Merlin were finally getting to him. Losing his patience, he snapped, “Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t just run around protesting it! They’d put me in the stocks for disturbing the _bloody_ _peace_! But if you want to try that, then go ahead, I won’t stop you.”

Clutching his hands into fists, Arthur belatedly noticed that they were actually arguing. They had never truly argued―which was a little surprising given how often Arthur had once wanted to murder Merlin, yet it was true. Actually, what was more surprising was that Merlin was not backing away in the slightest, but, given the circumstances, it was more frustrating than impressive.

Merlin furrowed his eyebrows, matching Arthur’s expression perfectly. “Well, we can’t just let a bunch of idiots on horseback hitting each other decide the kingdom’s future!”

Right then, something in Arthur shattered. He dropped his voice, icily keeping his tone level. “Watch it. I may not be a knight, but I’m one of those idiots you’re referring to.”

Seemingly chastened, Merlin’s face relaxed suddenly, and he closed his eyes, sighing quietly. For a second he looked as tired as Arthur felt, but the blond was not particularly wishing to hand out mercies at the moment.

Continuing in what the man probably thought was a conciliatory tone, Merlin replied, “Look, I don’t pretend to understand all this knight business, but―”

Arthur did not bother hearing the rest of the sentence, interrupting the sorcerer with no little malice. “And why would you? You’re Gifted, aren’t you? You were just born like that. You didn’t have to _work_ for it.” They both knew that this was a lie, but Arthur did not care―and Merlin, damn him, had apparently decided to be levelheaded and did not contradict him. “You’re too good for this, aren’t you?” accused Arthur, and was immediately astonished by the resentment he heard in his own voice.

Even Merlin seemed to be taken aback, but it must have been due to the transparent jealousy they had both heard rather than because he had taken offense. Arthur had not known this about himself, and felt ashamed. Still, he could make sense of it―Merlin truly was powerful. So powerful, in fact, that he would have little need for Arthur’s protection. The blond cursed himself but could not abstain from tasting the bitterness, could not clear his head. It was like pushing a boulder towards a hill’s apex―if you paused for breath, it would end up rolling after you and crush you.

“I never said…” Merlin steadily began, eyes widening.

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about it.” A frantic voice was sounding in Arthur’s head, urging him to go douse his head in cold water and then apologize to Merlin so he could calmly root out what was truly bothering the sorcerer. Feeling scorned, he ignored it. “Look, Merlin―in some admittedly pathetic way, I _like_ being Kay’s squire. I don’t like Kay, but I have little choice in the matter. And these magic lessons, or whatever they are, aren’t actually helping me. Let’s face it, they’re useless. But _this_ ―this is something within my abilities. If I keep this up, I could become your―a knight, I could become a knight.” Arthur mentally winced at the slip, hoping that Merlin had not noticed.

Either way, he could not be immediately certain, because instead of retorting, the sorcerer froze―his expression frighteningly blank. Confused, Arthur delved into his immediate memory, skimming his brief monologue―and instantly felt lead collecting in his stomach (and hoped that it was just him and not a spell).

“So,” said Merlin with a terrible chillness in his tone, “what you’re saying is that I’m useless, right Arthur?”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Arthur quickly, because, truly, it was far from the truth. Arthur only meant that the lessons were useless to _him_ , because he would never be able to harness magic―but it would not matter, because Merlin would be at his side, compensating for his shortcomings. Merlin was _important_. Arthur just did not know how to make this evident without frightening him away (the almost-knight had made so many plans, but had yet to profess his feelings).  

“Are you sure about that?” Merlin should have been angry, Arthur thought, but he was horrifyingly calm. The man turned his back, walking towards his cot before pausing, staring at the wall. “Oh, and just so you know, these useless ‘magic lessons’ of ours. They were meant to prepare you for kingship, but I see that they’ve only made you into even more of a fucking _prat_ than before.” Arthur stopped breathing. “You’ve obviously got more important things to worry about. Good luck with your Destiny, Arthur, because I won’t be around to help you.”

“King?! Merlin, this isn’t the sort of thing one forgets to mention―” And then Merlin was gone, glancing miserably back at Arthur just before disappearing, taking everything he owned with him.

“Merlin?” Arthur tried, numbly acknowledging that he had never before sounded so heartbroken. There was no answer, and for a crazed moment Arthur thought that Merlin had been the result of a delirium, but then he saw the dusty floor where Merlin’s cot had been, and he knew that he faced reality. “Fuck.”

~

“So, basically what you’re saying is that you’ve fucked up,” eventually commented Gwen, cautiously measuring her tone.

Arthur, perched on his bed with his forearms hanging between his thighs, grunted in affirmation. Gwen sighed from her place beside him, obvious worry lacing her features when she glanced towards the empty side of the room. Arthur did not bother―he just pretended that half of his room had finally collapsed in on itself and was no longer there. Still, he did not ignore Gwen’s concern; he knew that the maid and sorcerer had been good friends (just friends, thank the gods―although now he supposed that it no longer mattered).

“He couldn’t have just left,” Gwen said, attempting to comfort both of them. “He’s _Merlin_. He cares about people. If anything, he would have _at least_ said goodbye to me,” she added thoughtfully.

Oddly enough, this did not make Arthur feel any better. “So, what you mean to say is that I broke Merlin.” The concept was sickening, but it did not come as a shock―if anyone could have done it, it was Arthur. Although his taunts had been meant in playful jest, he was certain to have insulted Merlin on several occasions. Also, there was the chance that Merlin had read the signs and realized with disgust that Arthur was harboring indecent affections for him. Thus, when the perfect opportunity had presented itself, the man had escaped.

Arthur was about ready to knock his head against the wall until he was afflicted by amnesia. Actually, it was an interesting idea―if it roused enough pity in Merlin and provoked him to return, Arthur would do it in a heartbeat. The problem, however, was figuring out how to alert him of the fact. If he were Merlin, he would be as far away as possible, preferably in a warmer climate. So then, amnesia was not an option.  

“No,” replied Gwen patiently, “I mean that Merlin probably just needs time on his own to calm down. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“He took his things,” Arthur pointed out petulantly.

Gwen faltered a step. “He’s, er, possessive?” attempted the maid before Arthur shot her a skeptical glance. “He might just want you to think that he’s gone forever so you’ll wallow in guilt and regret―and then fall to your knees when he does come back.”

Arthur gave her a speculative look. “Isn’t that the sort of thing a woman would do?”

Gwen’s eyelid twitched noticeably, but Arthur decided it would be rude to point that out. “Not necessarily,” she finally said, sounding firm.

The blond felt tired again, dropping his face into his hands. If that truly was Merlin’s intent, then it was certainly working out well. Two more minutes and he would be crying―Arthur was already counting the seconds. Gwen seemed to sense this (Arthur really wanted to resent her for being able to do such things, but knew that he could not) and she placed a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently. 

“Don’t worry, Arthur. You’ll see him again.”

“How can you be certain?” he asked, carefully keeping the wail from his voice.

Gwen huffed then, laughing under her breath. “Because he likes you. Besides, he already knows that you’re a prick and weren’t actually thinking about what you were saying. In fact, I’m surprised that you didn’t fuck up sooner,” added Gwen with an amazed tilt in her voice.

Arthur chose to ignore the jabs at his character, knowing that Gwen would end up slapping him if he followed through on that topic. “He likes me?” he asked instead, glancing at Gwen through his fingers.   

Arthur could honestly, without any qualms, state that Gwen was the epitome of exasperation at that very moment. “Oh gods. Please don’t tell me that you’ve been completely oblivious to this.”

It took an awkward silence before Arthur cleared his throat and stared at the floor. “I thought he did, but then I wasn’t so sure.” He swallowed. “I spent his entire recuperation knowing what I want, but I was too preoccupied to really consider what he might or might not want. I only realized this when he woke up.” Arthur paused to gently clench his hands for a moment, imagining what it would be like to rip his hair out and if it would be as bloody as he assumed. Gwen seemed to soften, anyway, and she made a sympathetic sound. “Moreover, he never actually seemed like he wanted to ravish me, not even after I told him I carried him back…and he was probably freaked out because I couldn’t stop staring at him,” Arthur added, laughing despite himself.

Gwen chuckled, pushing at her hair wistfully. “Merlin doesn’t seem like the type to suddenly ravish someone, least of all you.”

Arthur was already familiar with Gwen’s jibes (she had caught the habit from Arthur, realizing that if she were to be friends with him, she would have to fight fire with fire) and so privately conceded that she had a point. Looking away, he muttered, “Well, he’s surprised us before. He’s left, hasn’t he?”

The blond sighed then, knowing that he had a lot of work ahead of him and had little time to do it in; the first day of the tournament was set for the day after tomorrow, and he could no longer waste time mulling any of this over. He was grateful that Gwen said nothing in regards to his Destiny, but he wondered whether it would have been better to discuss it, to have another’s opinion. Lost without Merlin, Arthur had chosen to leave it be―to allow matters to take their natural course. And yet, Arthur feared that his decision only guaranteed that his sorcerer would never return.

~

Merlin was waiting. He did not know whether he was being overly sensitive or if he had merely grown a backbone, but he did not want to return―not just yet. He had done his part, Merlin thought―now it was Arthur’s turn to take the reins. And though he knew he might regret this in the near future (likely in the moment when the new king announced a renewal of the ban on magic or, if not then, then definitely when he was tied to a stake and surrounded by fire), Merlin chose to stay just out of reach. Distressingly, time was running out.

Still, he waited.

~

Thus far, this was undoubtedly the most significant day for Arthur’s childhood dreams. Therefore, it was only natural that he could not focus his attention on anything without eventually drifting off to attempt to sort out his own thoughts. He had even led Kay’s horse astray and it had run off, heading towards a manure pile. Kay would have fallen into it but, thankfully, he was a terrible horseman and had managed to fall off _before_ he had reached the pile. The mistake cost Arthur a sound cuff against his head―which he could have easily dodged had Arthur not imagined that he had seen Merlin milling about in the crowd.

Even now as he stood on the sidelines, he could not find it in himself to smirk at the contenders that did not know their heads from their arses. Instead, it filled him with even more guilt, wondering if Merlin had been right to try and persuade him to enter. These people were not here because they cared for Camelot and its subjects―they only cared for the privileges they would inherit, and so would only disown the responsibilities. Soon enough, Arthur’s guilt began to curdle into anger.

Like many before him, Arthur had wondered what it would be like to be a part of the nobility―of royalty, even. However, whereas most focused on how life would simpler, Arthur had considered the duties that came with titles. He had tried to imagine himself as a leader of men, but it had never sat well with him―had felt incomplete. Now, whenever he tried to picture his future, he could not imagine it without Merlin―despite the fact that he did not know whether he would ever see him again. If Arthur became a knight, Merlin would be the love he would come home to. If Arthur ran away, Merlin would be running beside him. If Arthur were king…Merlin would be his closest advisor. Bitter though it tasted, he knew that the last felt most right. A Dragon’s prophecy was no little thing after all.

Arthur twitched when he thought he heard something, but chose to pay it no attention, lost in thought. Distracted, Arthur again missed a blow that he could have dodged otherwise. “What?” Arthur snapped.

Kay did not even bother getting riled up by his foster brother’s tone. “I _said_ , do you have my sword? I’m going to need it.”

Arthur froze, flexing his hands and finding they were empty. He rewound his memories, pausing on the ones that stood out: Gwen had seen him off and had been generally supportive, although sweetly mocking in that way she had; Arthur had handled the sword as they spoke, and he definitely remembered strapping it to the horse’s saddle; then he and Sir Ector had walked, while Kay rode, to the tourney grounds; they had grabbed one of the remaining tents…

“Ah, it’s in the tent,” replied Arthur before Kay could jostle him to see if he was still alive. “I’ll be back in a second.” Kay did not condescend to answer, and only turned away as Arthur jogged back to their ratty tent in the back of the mass of little houses. True to his word, the sword was propped up against a pack. Arthur had put it aside, sidetracked, and had not picked it up again. Sighing, he prayed for Merlin to return. Annoyingly enough, the sorcerer had become his inspiration. If he never came back, it would be ages before Arthur could dig up enough enthusiasm to practice fighting, among other things.

Grabbing the sword, he walked back, certain that there was no hurry (even if it was Kay’s turn, it was not likely that he would win or tie the joust―unless there was a knight worse than him, and Arthur, frankly, did not want to imagine such a horrible thing). Indeed, Kay still stood beside Sir Ector, biding his time; he only glanced at Arthur, then returned to making what he thought was a determined face, but only made him look like he was about to shit his trousers.

Arthur, too disinterested to watch the tournament, turned to examine the sword, seething that his foster brother could have such a fine weapon and not be able to use it properly. He passed his hand momentarily across the sheathed blade, wondering if perhaps Merlin could forge a sword using magic. If he had the chance―and if Merlin would deign to speak with him―Arthur would be sure to ask him. Although it was undeniably conceited, Arthur like the sound of a sword meant just for him―

Arthur almost dropped the weapon he held as his mind focused on one single image. Not bothering with excuses, Arthur pushed the sword at Kay without preamble and made off like the fox he once was, imagining Merlin just ahead of him. Sir Ector, unlike Kay (who held the sword as though it was infected), had enough presence of mind to call him out on it. “What the hell are you doing?!”

Arthur did not waste time, and only muttered, “Meeting my Destiny,” to himself before he sprinted off the grounds, making his way down familiar streets and passing sights he recalled having mocked with Merlin’s assistance. Fortunately the town was mostly deserted―everyone was either already at the tournament or simply at home because all of the shops were closed. The emptiness was foreign and somewhat unnerving, but the blond disregarded it and pushed on.

Arriving at his destination, Arthur paused for a breath before entering the small courtyard. He did not bother checking if anyone was around, aware that if he shared eye contact with another person, he could lose his nerve, and then he would never forgive himself. So instead he stalked up to the sword in the stone, deciding not to saunter lest it sense his inherent arrogance and refuse to budge.

Letting out an uneven sigh, Arthur stepped up to it and placed his hand on the hilt, closing his eyes to feel how it fit (he did not dare move it just yet, fearing that he was mistaken). After a few patient moments, Arthur opened his eyes and pushed the sword gently; it rocked from side to side in its cradle but, other than that, was not determined to wake. Arthur blinked slowly, confused. Something was missing.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” commented a familiar voice. Arthur whipped half his body around―cracking his spine painfully as he did so―and instantly felt the remaining fog in his mind disappear. Merlin stood a little ways away, his hands clasped behind his back and looking far too sheepish for Arthur’s liking. The blond blinked several times before he was convinced that the man would not vanish, and then nodded resolutely.

Merlin only smiled when Arthur scrambled off the altar and―much to his relief―continued to do so when Arthur stood before him and placed a hand on the sorcerer’s cheek.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, voice cracking, “I am so fucking _sorry_.” Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he grabbed Merlin’s face a little too desperately and kissed him. Arthur could have cried when the man did not hesitate to return it, but reined himself in, concentrating on Merlin and letting everything else fade into the background. There would be time enough for the future, but, for now, these few stolen moments were all that mattered.

Eventually, they parted, absentmindedly grooming each other into a presentable state for the sake of any passersby. Encouraged by the empty streets, Arthur retained his hold on Merlin, curling his hands around his waist. Not knowing the next time he would have the chance to do this in “public”, Arthur placed one chaste kiss in the corner of the sorcerer’s lips, watching Merlin stare back at him. Sighing, he leaned their heads together, glancing towards the sword.  

“Help me out?” he asked, grinning. Merlin only smiled knowingly (he had seen Arthur’s previous attempt and had been on the brink of hysterical laughter) and allowed Arthur to lead him forward. This time they both stepped up, and after Arthur grabbed the hilt, Merlin put his own hand over Arthur’s. Together they eased the sword out as though it had been fixed in a block of butter―but were both noticeably disappointed that this momentous occasion was not greeted with heavenly light and a chanting chorus.

“There’ll be no getting rid of you now, Merlin,” Arthur shook his head sadly, staring at the sword as though it had _already_ done him a personal disservice. “Excalibur has spoken,” he intoned. His teasing abruptly reminded him why Merlin had left in the first place, so he grabbed hold of the sorcerer before he could spring away, careful to keep the naked blade at a safe distance.

“I take it all back,” Arthur said. “You’re not useless. I never thought you were.”

Merlin pursed his lips in thought, raising one hand from the king’s shoulders to place it under Arthur’s chin. “I concede that maybe you’re not that big of a prat.” Arthur grinned, taking it all in stride. “And since I don’t suppose I have much of an alternative, I might as well condescend to keep a champion handy, even if he is the king.”

The sorcerer chuckled then, and turned to observe the sword Arthur held beyond his shoulder. Merlin looked back―Arthur feeling satisfied when Merlin had trouble focusing on his eyes and not on his mouth―and then murmured, “Long live King Arthur.”

Arthur nudged his forehead against the man’s own, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “Well? Aren’t you going to swear fealty to me?”

Merlin barked out a sudden laugh, shaking his head quickly. “To you? Definitely not. You’d be so smug and insufferable that I’d have to make myself scarce again.” He paused, gravely considering. “Moreover, Gwen would find it completely romantic and would figure out a way to marry us. Which is a lot scarier than it sounds, trust me.”

Out of principle, Arthur tightened his hold on Merlin for just a moment, daring anyone to deny him this. “I guess this’ll have to be enough.”

The sorcerer grinned, understanding, and proceeded to press his face against Arthur’s neck. Once he may have rebuked Merlin for using him as a pillow, but considering that he had done the same when the man had been ill, he decided that it was only fair. Humming contentedly, he leaned his cheek against black hair.

After several moments of this, Arthur wondered if Merlin really had fallen asleep, but then the man languidly remarked, “I hope the kissing wasn’t a requirement. It would be really awkward if we had to kiss again to get the sword out.”

The king raised his eyebrows, angling his head so he could better see the face of his sorcerer. “Again? What do you mean?”

“Well, the public will probably want proof that you―or, we, I guess―were the ones to do it,” Merlin pointed out, seemingly too relaxed to see how this could be an issue.

“Uh,” answered Arthur intelligently.

 

End.


End file.
